


Return Error

by on_the_wing



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Anger, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Dubiously Consensual Violence, Guilt, Lurid Partner Stretches, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Online Conversations, Praxis Why Did You Say That, Reunion Sex, Shower Sex, Smooching, Topping from the Bottom, bad timing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_the_wing/pseuds/on_the_wing
Summary: Deimos has finally ditched Cain. Praxis takes the opportunity to propose a renewal of their old relationship…with a twist. He wouldn’t be Praxis if he had good timing, though. Or tact.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same continuity as the Absence of Monsters series, but happens much later, probably a little after the end of Chapter 4 in canon. Of course at this point I have no idea what’s going to happen after the end of Chapter 4, so this may end up diverging. Oh well…
> 
> Just a heads up: there’s a bit that may seem like non-con at first, but it’s actually consensual, or at least it’s the top who is being pressured to act that way, hmm, I guess I’ll make it dub-con. It is distressing for both participants though, and generally not a great example of relationship communication. Imagine that.
> 
> As usual, present tense POV is Deimos, past tense POV is Praxis; Marsh = Praxis, Skala = Deimos. These are their old nicknames for each other from before they had task names.

“I haven’t seen you with Cain lately.” The voice is deep and warm and familiar; I could roll myself up in it like a blanket. Too bad hearing it makes me want to stab something, possibly myself.  
  
“I haven’t seen you with _Abel_ lately,” I hiss automatically. Thrust, parry.  
  
Praxis blinks at me with his one remaining eye. “Well, no. I never exactly spent time with him.”  
  
And a miss. “What do you want?” I whisper, narrowing my eyes.  
  
He drops his gaze. “Sorry. I just—I just wondered. If you were still…with him.”  
  
“I was never _with_ Him like that. And you know it.”  
  
“I didn’t know that. You wouldn’t talk about it, remember? But all right.”  
  
I can’t stop the flood of memories that pour in at the dark rich sound of his voice. His tongue in my ear, my teeth in his shoulder, his thigh between mine, his hands, _fuck_ , his hands. The feeling of being held. The feeling of falling. “If you must know, no.” My voice comes out even more pinched and rough than usual. I wrap my arms around myself and take a step back.  
  
“No, what—oh.” He hesitates, opens his mouth slightly, closes it.  
  
That _mouth_. I can’t breathe, fuck I have to get away. “I told Him to fuck off. Surprise. Now you can fuck off too.”  
  
Praxis whispers something, a name that slips under my ribs and burns.  
  
I shove him against the wall. “I don’t know who you’re talking to,” I rasp, “but it isn’t me.”  
  
He leans forward and opens his mouth, but I shove him back against the wall again, so hard his head bounces off. “I don’t know that name. I don’t know that person. He sounds like a gullible idiot, though, so he’s probably dead.”  
  
“Stop it. You’re not dead.”  
  
I narrow my eyes. “I never said I was.”  
  
“Look, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t—“  
  
“I don’t want to hear it. Go back to all your fluffy little blonds.”  
  
“All my—what?”  
  
“You heard me.”  
  
“You make it sound like I’m raising a flock of chicks.”  
  
I shrug. He might as well be. He doesn’t seem to be very good at it, though.  
  
“Deimos.”  
  
I give him the dead stare.  
  
“It’s not as if—“ he blurts out.  
  
Oh? I raise my eyebrows.  
  
“You know I didn’t reject _you_ , right?”  
  
I am not going over this shit again. I turn to leave.  
  
“You could’ve said something,” he bursts out.  
  
“What?”  
  
“When—you know.” His hand moves unconsciously to cover the eyepatch. “I know you can’t do much with Phobos piloting, but you could have…said something. To me, I mean, not Phobos.”  
  
I freeze.  
  
“Never mind. We weren’t—together then. If we ever were. It’s stupid.” He looks down. “I just—I just—felt really alone.”  
  
I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry.  
  
“All I could think about was how I was about to die and the last thing I was going to hear was some CC twit telling me to do something I couldn’t possibly do. Sure, CC, I’ll just fly away without any engine function. Why don’t I take out the rest of the Colteron fleet while I’m at it?”  
  
My voice is a parched little rasp. “I—couldn’t.”  
  
His remaining eye swivels back up to me. “What?”  
  
“Couldn’t—talk. Couldn’t move.”  
  
“Um…why?”  
  
I drop into a shaky crouch, covering my face with my arms. “Stop it. Stop making me say. I know I’m bad.”  
  
I hear a rustle, and then his voice close to me. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were panicking then. I just thought—since you didn’t come see me afterward—”  
  
“I couldn’t look you in the eye!” I glance up at him in horror, suddenly realizing what I just said.  
  
We burst out laughing at the same time. He leans against the wall and lets his feet slide out from under him with a thump. “That was awful. Please don’t become a standup comedian.”  
  
“You did laugh,” I point out.  
  
“So I did.”  
  
His feet are on either side of me now. That means I’m _between his legs_. He’s looking at me like he wants to say something, or do something. I’m starting to feel awkward crouching here.  
  
“Do you want to…?” He opens his arms.  
  
If I put my arms around him I’m going to scream, or stab him, or bite through his shoulder, or worse, turn into the same kind of soppy, needy mess that I used to become with him. It was like a chemical reaction; whenever I touched him, I melted.  
  
Scratch that. That’s bullshit. I decided to let it happen, to give up my dignity and my armor and my silence, because I was starving for touch and he made me feel safe and warm and lo—no. It’s always an illusion. People just want something. Even He wants something. He used to be honest about what that was, but then He stopped. He got soppy too, just like I did, and it wasn’t for me. He never even gave me a chance. Fuck Him. Or, rather, don’t.  
  
I want something, too. I want a lot of things. I sidle cautiously over to Mar—Praxis, and turn around, leaning back into him and slumping down onto the floor. His arms come forward to wrap around me, and I feel his face against my temple. It takes all my strength not to turn and slide my cheek against his until our lips meet. I clench his hands and wrists, pull them close to my chest. He whispers, “You’re shaking. Are you all right?”  
  
Every part of him is so warm. I forgot that. How could I have forgotten that? I tilt my head back and sigh. “Let’s kill everyone and burn the place down.”  
  
He gives a little hiccup of a laugh. “What?”  
  
“It’s too cold here.”  
  
He pulls me closer and nuzzles my neck. “I don’t think the ship is flammable.”  
  
“We can burn the bodies instead.”  
  
“This is getting dark. Besides, who would you stab if everyone’s already dead?”  
  
He’s flirting with me. I’m supposed to say, “you,” and then I’ll feel him getting hard behind me and we’ll end up going to his room to tie him up and tease him with knives, and somehow I’ll end up with my head on his chest weeping for the sins of the world.  
  
“I’ll already have stabbed everybody, I’ll be good for a while.” I turn my head to look up at him. “You’d look great stabbing people, by the way. Or slicing. Maybe you’d be more of a slicer. No, you’re a straightforward guy, you’d probably rather stab.”  
  
“I can’t tell if you’re flirting with me or trying to make me throw up.”  
  
“You’ve never thought about it? You’re only a stabbing bottom? You should try it sometime.”  
  
“I like punching people.”  
  
“Ah, the classics. It takes a lot of punching to kill someone though. It’s not very efficient.”  
  
“I’m not generally trying to kill the guys I punch.”  
  
“I guess you can’t punch them again later if you kill them now. Very thrifty of you.”  
  
He doesn’t answer.  
  
“Now you’re thrifty with words too.”  
  
“Do you want me to punch him?”  
  
I freeze, and then make myself laugh. “How generous. It’s not like you didn’t _already_ want to punch Him.”  
  
“No, the generous part is where I _refrained_ from punching him. Mostly.”  
  
“Mostly?”  
  
“Well, he punched me first.”  
  
I turn halfway around, making him sit back against the wall. “When was this?”  
  
“Not too long ago.”  
  
“Oh, because you blabbed to His navigator.”  
  
“You make it sound like I had some moral obligation _not_ to talk, instead of the other way around. Don’t worry, it didn’t do anything.”  
  
“Pfft, like I care anyway.” I turn my back again, and get up.  
  
I hear him scrambling to his feet behind me. “Wait, don’t leave!”  
  
“Why, your first choice told you to fuck off so you thought you’d go for what’s available?”  
  
“I could say the same for you,” he snarls.  
  
I whirl around instinctively, my fingers curling back for Galya.  
  
His face is already crumpling. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”  
  
I fold my arms. “Yes you did.”  
  
He steps forward and grabs my shoulders, and I struggle to keep my face neutral. “Don’t you understand? _You_ were my first choice. _You_ told me to fuck off. I never would have gotten involved with him if you hadn’t rejected me. And out there…I was thinking of you. Abel talked to me when you wouldn’t. Well, I guess when you couldn’t. And yes, he saved me and I got—feelings because of that. I’m only human. What am I supposed to do, shut my feelings off forever because you wouldn’t love me?”  
  
“That’s what normal people do,” I snap before I can think.  
  
He’s looking at me funny. What is that expression? “Sk—“  
  
“ _Deimos._ ”  
  
“Deimos—that’s…it’s not. Please tell me you know that’s not what people do.”  
  
Fuck off. Just fuck off, you self-righteous pitying prick.  
  
“You didn’t shut yours off, did you? If you had, you would never have gotten involved with me.”  
  
I shake off his hands. “What made you think there were feelings involved?”  
  
His face goes dead for a moment, then the pity is back. “I know you’re just trying to hurt me because you’re hurting. But you don’t have to. I want to make you feel better. I know I can do it, if you let me.”  
  
“Why? Why would you want me to feel better?”  
  
His brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t I?”  
  
“Well, I told you to fuck off, and I didn’t save you, and I kept on working for someone you hate.”  
  
“I wouldn’t exactly say I hate him. It’s more like he’s mold and I think someone should clean him up.”  
  
“Ooh, and you called _me_ dark.”  
  
“Look, I just—really like you, and I hate to watch him treat you like dirt. I never understood why you stayed with him, but now you’re not with him, so…why not let me be nice to you?”  
  
“Maybe I don’t like nice.”  
  
He blinks. “What do you like, then?”  
  
I run a hand over his chest. “I like mean.”  
  
He thinks for a moment. “I give a mean backrub.”  
  
I pause, horrifically tempted. It’s true, his backrubs were magnificent, and I haven’t had one—magnificent or measly—since. My back screams at me to say yes.  
  
“No funny business,” I say finally. “No feelings talk, no…names.” Maybe I’ll even be able to stop myself from having sex with him. That would be good for my self-respect.  
  
His face lights up slowly, like dawn over the smog-smudged towers of my old neighborhood.  
  
Half an hour later I’m gnawing on his pillow, breathing in shampoo and sweat in shallow gulps while he slams into me from behind. “For fuck’s sake, say something,” he gasps. “I know you like it. Admit it. You used to make such pretty sounds.”  
  
I can’t reach any of my knives, and I can’t slap him from this angle. Instead, I grab his hand off my shoulder and bite it, hard.  
  
“Jesus FUCK,” he shrieks, yanking it away. “What the FUCK is wrong with you?”  
  
I think I can taste blood. I laugh quietly and clench my muscles around him, pushing back.  
  
“Maybe _you’d_ like to be bitten too,” he snarls.  
  
Gosh, you think?  
  
He leans over me to lick the back of my neck before sinking his teeth in. I inhale sharply but manage not to make any other sound. He uses his teeth to hold me in place for his thrusts, reaching under me to pinch my nipple and stroke me briskly. The pain grows into a red-black cloud behind my eyelids and I’m panting hard and writhing under him, determined not to break but I’m going to come soon, I’m going to come so hard, fucking hell, it hurts, it feels so good, the bastard’s finally giving me what I fucking want; he’s pinning me down and I can’t get away and there’s nothing to do but take what he’s giving me. I don’t have to love him, I don’t have to need him, I can just be his prisoner for a little while, and resist him as long as I can. My head feels clear, I’m calm, it’s perfect.  
  
Which is why it surprises me entirely when I hear the ragged whine coming out of my throat, plaintive and rhythmic. I try to shut myself up again but I need to breathe and I can’t stop. Mar—Praxis stops biting me and murmurs wordless reassurance into my shoulder, and if I could get at my knives I would stab him for real, I would slice the muscles of his arm clean through so he couldn’t keep touching me that way. I’d make him bleed real blood the way he’s making me bleed sound. He’s not mine, I’m not his, he has no right to do that.  
  
I want to throw him off but all I can do is cry out weakly and twitch my hips, oh god the way he feels inside me, it’s—it’s like there’s no room for me, it’s all him, he can feel me, he _knows_ me, no no too much, too close, he’s all around me, get away get away but I can’t it’s too much I’m on fire I need it, he’s biting me again and I’m convulsing, a shower of sparks, a strangled scream, I’m shuddering and spurting into his big skillful hand. I can’t control what I do, I can’t control what comes out of me, it’s so humiliating but the magical chemistry of orgasm is already changing my panic and rage to sleepy trusting contentment: the ultimate betrayal of self.  
  
Which, of course, is the natural endpoint of the process I started when I went to his room. No, when I talked to him. No, when I looked at him and didn’t look away. It hurts to look at him now, that eyepatch a constant reminder of the terrible thing that happened to him, the place where something is missing. Then again, that makes him more like me, doesn’t it?  
  
Maybe that’s why I let him approach me. Why I let him touch me. Why I turned and pulled him down on top of me once the backrub started to make me feel too warm and loose-limbed. His hands were already hovering at my hip, at the small of my back where I like to be touched gently, already stroking instead of digging.  
  
He kissed me and I listened to his breathless moans for a moment before pulling away and offering him my throat as a distraction. I let my back arch and my lips part and my eyelids drop for him, I let my starving hands explore his body once again, I sunk my nails into his back and sucked his neck and rubbed myself against him, but I refused to make a sound.  
  
When he asked if I was all right, I nodded and mouthed, “Come _on_.”  
  
“But you won’t kiss me. Are you sure?”  
  
I pulled his head down and whispered in his ear, “Don’t be nice. Be mean.”  
  
And so here we are.  
  
I finally manage the strength to tip us over on our sides, so he isn’t on top of me anymore. I wriggle and push him away until he pulls out, too quickly but I don’t care, I just need to put space between us. I’m about to get away entirely, jam on some clothes and just run for the door, but then I make a mistake and look right at him.  
  
Fuck. There’s no escape now. I push him over on his back and climb on top of him, take his wet face in my hands, kiss him over and over, humming desperate little apologies. He looks away, and I kiss his cheek, stroking his hair. I want to pull back his eyepatch and kiss what’s left of his eyelids too—they must still be there if that side makes tears, right?—but I don’t know if it would hurt him. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“What _happened_?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
He blinks and turns back to focus on me. “That was horrible.”  
  
“I had fun,” I say brightly.  
  
We crack up.  
  
“I’m glad you knew I wasn’t serious.”  
  
He takes a deep breath, and pulls my face back to his. “Я не _полный_ идиот.”  
  
I gasp. “Ты говоришь по-русски так хорошо сейчас!”  
  
He smiles. “Спасибо.”  
  
I barely have time to smile back before his hands are in my hair and he’s kissing me again, slowly but with growing urgency. I crush him down to the pillow, licking into his open mouth. “Maybe,” I gasp, “someone should be nice to _you_.”  
  
“Mmh—I don’t—mmh—I don’t think I can wait through a whole backrub.”  
  
“Doesn’t—have to be a backrub.”  
  
“Mmmh—what did you have in mind?”  
  
“Get in the shower with me and I’ll show you.”  
  
His mouth follows mine up out of the bed, and I pull him toward the bathroom, still kissing him. I smack his ass and he laughs, then pulls away to turn on the water. Under cover of the hissing sound, I sneak back into the bedroom for the lube and get back before he even notices.  
  
He’s peeling off the eyepatch. I tug at his arm and pull him to me for another kiss, softer this time. When we draw back, I stroke his cheek with my finger and trace the line of his eyebrow, the one with the missing eye. There’s nothing very dramatic to see; it just looks like closed eyelids, with a thin, jagged pink scar on the upper one. He fidgets. “You’re ruffling it!”  
  
“I’ll ruffle your eyebrows all I want.” I ruffle the other one too, then smooth them both down. He sighs in relief, and I laugh. “Does it…hurt?” I whisper after a moment.  
  
“Only when I turn the other eye too fast. The muscles in both of them move together. But it doesn’t hurt much anymore. Sometimes the conformer itches, though.”  
  
“The—?”  
  
“Oh, it’s this—empty shell thing I have to wear in the socket, to keep the muscles and stuff from growing into it. Well, I don’t have to, but I want to in case they ever decide to cough up for a new eye. Or a halfway decent prosthesis. It would be nice if I didn’t have to go around looking like a pirate forever.”  
  
“You make a sexy pirate,” I whisper. I take a risk and pull his head down, very carefully kiss the empty eyelids, and then the full ones. He swallows, and looks at me, the one remaining eye bright. I run my hands over his smooth solid chest, just because I can, and get up on my tiptoes to cover his mouth with mine.  
  
He pulls me to him so quickly it’s almost violent, clutching at my shoulder blades, the back of my head, not trying to deepen the kiss but trying to get me closer, maybe grow into me. “I missed you so much,” he whispers into my mouth.  
  
“Feelings talk,” I remind him gently.  
  
“Mmm, sorry.” He licks my lips, and I moan and rub up against him. “Ohh. You are so hot. Can I say that?”  
  
“I suppose I could—mmh—allow that.”  
  
“Were we going to get in the shower? I um—mmh—feel like there was some reason I turned the water on.”  
  
I pull away and take a deep breath. “There was. You are a filthy, filthy boy and you desperately need a bath.” I have a hard time keeping a straight face, and end up cracking up a little at the end.  
  
“Gosh, I didn’t realize I was that filthy. I took a shower just this morning.”  
  
“Let’s just say I have very exacting standards, and I like to do things myself. To make sure the job is done right.”  
  
“Oh, my.”  
  
I nudge Praxis—there, I got it right!—into the shower, and take a moment to appreciate (first with my eyes, and then with my tongue) the way the silvery droplets collect and merge and run down into the creases between his muscles. He laughs and pulls me all the way into the stall, and I remember what I’m supposed to be doing.  
  
I run the washcloth over him slowly in circles, working from top to bottom. He fidgets and whines and tries to touch me, but I slap his hands away and place them on the wall. “Stay,” I tell him severely.  
  
“ _This_ is nice?” he pants.  
  
“Doesn’t it feel nice?”  
  
“Well…yes.”  
  
“Well, what’s the problem?” I lick a bead of water off his chest, and he moans and looks down sadly. “I’ll get there. Be patient.”  
  
“It’s so _hard_.”  
  
I smirk. “You don’t have to tell me that.”  
  
“You are terrible. It’s so _difficult_.”  
  
“I’m going to have to do that part last, you know. I don’t trust you to stay calm.”  
  
He swallows. “That might be a good idea.”  
  
I’m getting impatient too, but instead of working more quickly I start to lick each part of him after I rinse it off. I have to smack him a few times—a suspiciously large number of times, actually—to remind him to keep his hands on the wall.  
  
I’m trying to find out how many of his toes I can fit in my mouth at once when he starts laughing hysterically, so much that he loses his balance and has to hop on the other foot. I glare up at him through a haze of spray.  
  
“I’m just ticklish! And I think we’re supposed to do this when I’m lying down. Or sitting down.”  
  
“Hmph.”  
  
“And I think I should turn the water off soon. It’s starting to get cold.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” I grumble. “Just let me finish washing you.”  
   
“I want to kiss you first.”  
  
I smile up at him. “I’ll be quick.”  
  
He returns the smile. “All right—oh!”  
  
I don’t have to wash it _that_ thoroughly, but making him claw at the wall is part of the fun.  
  
Finally I stand back up, toss the washcloth over the bar, and wrap my arms around his neck. He turns the water off and pulls me closer, trying to make every part of our bodies touch. My lips part in response to his gentle probing, and I rub slowly against him, both relieving and increasing the sweet ache. I want to wrap my legs around him and let him sink into me, fuck me up against the tile wall so high I can’t reach the floor and so deep I can’t speak, but this isn’t about me.  
  
I kiss his neck, his shoulders, his chest, set my teeth gently into his nipple. I can feel him groan, and suddenly I can’t wait anymore. I grip him by the hips and slide to my knees again, reaching for the lube even as I lean forward to rub my face against his erection. His breath catches and his hands slip around the back of my head, flexing in my wet hair.  
  
I set the lube on the floor and knead his ass. He looks down at the lube and releases my head, reaching back to spread himself apart for me. To reward him, I give the underside of his cock a long firm lick from base to tip, then reach down for the lube and slather it on my fingers. He’s breathing hard and trembling.  
  
“Shh, shh,” I whisper, leaning my cheek against his hip. I slide my fingertips down the cleft of his ass until they find the small, strong, demanding opening. A whine escapes his throat, and he struggles to breathe deeply. “Все нормально, дорогой.” What did I just call him? I press a kiss into the hollow by his hipbone, and let my fingers caress without probing.  
  
When I finally dip my fingertip in, Marsh sighs happily and tilts his hips back. I circle the edge again, then slip my finger inside, inching into him with shallow little strokes. Once I’m halfway in, I take his cock in my other hand and rub it on my face, pushing it against my lips as if they were reluctant to open. A deep groan breaks out of him, and his hips jerk. I smile and slip the tip of my tongue out to probe the slit while I push my finger deeper inside him.  
  
“Aaah—oh, Skal—Deimos. Can I—can I call you that at least?”  
  
I look up at him and nod, not trusting my voice. Before he can say anything else I add another finger, working my way in with short fluttery strokes, and take him in my mouth. He clenches hard around me and gasps out my task name again, then relaxes and rocks his hips, submitting to my intrusion, welcoming it. I hum to him, stroke him with my tongue and fingers until I’m probing far enough inside to make him start tossing his head and shouting helplessly, sounding almost as raw as I do when I speak out loud. “Fuck Deimos, FUCK yes, that feels SO good, harder, oh god, FUCK me, please, please, _Deimos_ —“  
  
It’s feeling pretty good to me too. I forgot how much I loved controlling him like this, making this huge beautiful brawny fighter tremble and beg and convulse with just a few little movements of my hands and mouth. It makes me feel like a sorcerer. But it also puts me in awe of the trust he has in me. It must be unnerving for someone who’s used to being big and powerful to let go like that, to submit to someone smaller and weaker.  
  
I work in a third finger and he loses his words, pressing his hands against the wall to brace himself, deep, slow howling sobs tearing their way out of his throat. It takes me a moment to register the small cough from the doorway.  
  
It’s his new navigator, Ethos, the shy little round-faced fluffy one. He doesn’t look that shy now, though. Embarrassed, yes, but furious. Why, because we left the door open? Does he have a crush on M—Praxis? In any case, why is he still standing there? _Rude._  
  
I give him the dead eyes and lean forward to suck down Marsh’s—goddammit— _Praxis’_ —cock as deep as I can manage, scoring another loud sob. His eyes are closed, and he still hasn’t noticed Ethos. Hopefully he never will.  
  
“Praxis.” The voice pierces the steamy heat of the room like an icicle.  
  
This time there’s no way to keep my sexy boy from hearing it, and his head swivels in panic. “Ethos! Hi! Uh…”  
  
I keep my palm still, but inside him I use my fingers to rub that one perfect spot.  
  
Praxis lets out a noise halfway between a yelp and a moan. “My god, I’m so sorry. Could you just give me a minute?”  
  
“To do what, exactly?”  
  
I pull my mouth off and give the fluffy little chick the worst glare I can muster. He isn’t even looking at me. I would be impressed if I weren’t so irritated.  
  
“Uh, to…get myself together?”  
  
“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days? Fine.” He turns on his neat little heel and marches into the other room without closing the door. Clever.  
  
Marsh looks down at me. “Shit. I’m sorry. I should, um…”  
  
“No fucking way,” I whisper. “He doesn’t get to barge in like that and make us stop.” I stroke him on the inside again and he inhales sharply, trying to be quiet. I give his cock another long slow lick. “I’m going to make you come whether he likes it or not.” This time he can’t be quiet.  
  
“D-Deimos I—I really shouldn’t, he’s going to be so angry—“  
  
“He’s already angry. You might as well get the fun out of it. Now stop talking.” I swallow him down again, and he lets out a choked cry and grabs the back of my head. I hum approvingly and suck harder, giving him only slow little strokes with my fingers so that he finally begs for more and harder and faster. He’s mine, mine, mine and no navigator is going to take him away from me (again).  
  
***  
  
_I can’t I can’t I can’t I shouldn’t but ohh, I want to, his mouth, his fingers, the way he looks up at me, oh my god. I never knew anyone could be that commanding on their knees._ My own knees were shaking, I didn’t know how much more I could take. I only knew I needed it desperately and I was at his mercy.  
  
He looked up at me again, eyes unreadable, then his lashes fluttered closed and he licked firmly under the head, letting out that little high-pitched moan that always drives me crazy, the one that sounds like he’s so excited he forgot he was human. “Oh god oh Deimos I’m going to, I’m going to—“  
  
He crooned again, and his mouth, his hand, his fingers thrusting deep inside me, that _sound_ , I couldn’t take it, that sweet hard tight slide both ways, I bit my hand and came so hard for him, in him, with him in me, because he made me and I wanted to.  
  
I folded like a jackknife, wrapping my arms around him and welding our mouths together, trying to show him how much I’d missed him. He knew already but I didn’t care, I wanted to show him anyway. He stroked my hair and hummed to me, and for a long moment I was perfectly happy, even through the throbbing of my knees.  
  
Then he gently withdrew his fingers, and pressed kisses to my face and throat, and we had to get up and get clean again. It went a lot quicker now that he wasn’t trying to seduce me, although I started to wonder if I should seduce _him_ given the state of his—well, never mind. But I still had to explain to Ethos—ouch—and to him about Ethos—double ouch.  
   
I was hoping that Ethos would have left once we finally got out of the bathroom, but he really was implacable. He was sitting on my bunk, mouth set, tapping at his laptop. He glanced up. “Your clothes are on the dresser.”  
  
“Oh, um, thanks,” I mumbled.  
  
He gave me a sharp glance, then looked back at the laptop. Clearly it was not intended as a favor. Deimos quirked an eyebrow at me and sniffed one of the neatly folded piles, then took the other and matter-of-factly began to dress. He didn’t make any effort to hide himself from Ethos, but I instinctively moved between them, earning a wry smile. I briefly wondered if I would’ve been able to tell our clothes apart by smell, but I wasn’t going to have the chance, at least not this time.  
  
I admit I didn’t much hurry getting dressed, partly because I like watching Deimos (his neat, efficient movements are always interesting, and besides, watching him dress makes me think of the reverse process) and partly because I wanted to put off the inevitable for as long as possible. Eventually I had to pull on my boots, though, and my jacket, not so much for the physical warmth as for the psychological armor it provided.  
  
I took a deep breath and turned around. “Ethos?”  
  
He looked up. “Yes?”  
  
“I need to talk to Deimos before we talk.”  
  
His pale eyebrows shot up. “Oh, like how you were talking before?”  
  
_Damn. He went there._ “No, actually talk. Or rather, finish talking.”  
  
Ethos swallowed. “Fine. I’ll be in the lab.” He jumped up and half-ran out the door, avoiding our eyes.  
  
Deimos strolled over to the bed and sprawled across it like a cat, giving me a guarded look. I sat down next to him and took another deep breath. “So. Um. There was some stuff I didn’t get to earlier.”  
  
He tapped his fingers on his thigh.  
  
“So, uh, the background is that Ethos and I didn’t get along very well when we were first assigned together. I was still pretty upset about—you know, and I—didn’t want to be reminded of it. So I avoided him. A lot. And I was sometimes…rude when I did see him.”  
  
The corner of his mouth pulled up. “Imagine that.”  
  
“Hey, when am I rude to you?”  
  
“When you want to be punished.”  
  
“ _Anyway_ ,” I continued, probably blushing—although come to think of it I probably _had_ wanted punishment, of a non-erotic kind—“I, um—stop _looking_ at me like that! I can’t think! I eventually started to work with him and tried to make up for my previous neglect.”  
  
“How hard did you work?” he purred, eyes half lidded.  
  
“ _Stop_ it!” I flopped down on my back, then immediately sat up again lest he take that as an invitation. “I, you know, did training sessions. And started spending more time with him. He was very patient with me—he’s really nice, he was just mad back there because I—well, I’ll get to that. We started to talk some, about personal stuff, too.”  
  
Deimos said nothing, and his expression didn’t change, but his limbs tensed, as if we were on the bus and it had rounded a corner.     
  
“I didn’t tell him about you and me. Although I guess he knows now. Well, he knows what he saw.”  
  
He sat back against the wall and folded his legs, deliberately casual. “So….”  
  
I turned to face him. “This is awkward, because, um…well, we were supposed to talk to you about this together, but…”  
  
His eyebrows shot up.  
  
I took a deep breath. "He and I like each other as friends now, but we both like you in, um, the other way. And we were going to ask you if you wanted to um, date us. Together.”  
  
He was just staring at me now.  
  
“But I didn’t tell him about you and me being involved before, because I thought you might not want me to. So I had to talk to you alone first, to clear up our stuff, if I could. And now I have to give him some explanation about uh, what I was doing with you. So it’s up to you whether I tell him we have history or uh, say I was just being a thoughtless jerk again.”  
  
Deimos kept staring at me like he couldn’t believe I actually existed. Finally he shook his head and vaulted to his feet. “Why do you have to be so _pretty_?” he rasped, and was out the door before I could stop him.  
  
***  
  
What the fuck. What the freaking fuck. Where do I even find these guys?  
  
_You found this one by pulling a knife on all the guys who sassed Him and hopping on top of the one who popped a boner_ , my mind reminds me cheerfully. Thank you, mind, that will be all.  
  
That doesn’t explain Ethos, though. Then again, that was just Marsh’s story, I don’t know if Ethos really likes me. Why would he? He probably likes Marsh—Praxis, I remind myself for the nth time. Either Praxis is telling the truth as he understands it, and Ethos is only pretending to want me so he can have Praxis even if he has to share him—oh, how well I understand that!—or it’s an outright lie and they’re involved. Why would he tell such a dumb lie? Because he needed a quick explanation for Ethos’ outrage, and he knew I wouldn’t fall for something mean-spirited like, “Ethos is a crazy stalker who thinks he owns me even though I never touched him.”  
  
Ugh. Marsh is weak. Weak and distractible and cowardly. I know he likes me, but he keeps veering off whenever some little blond navigator catches his eye, or his ear, or his sense of duty. They always come first, just like they do in civilian life. It’s not fucking fair. I know he’s fancier than most of us fighters, he wants to move on up, maybe go to college and get a job on Earth some day. The easiest way to do that is to marry a navigator, or be in a relationship with a navigator, or at the very least be close friends with a navigator. All the smartest fighters know that joining the Alliance is essentially a twisted reality dating show where you risk your life to win the wealthy bachelor.  
  
I know it too, and I should be busy wooing one of my own, but I don’t care; I hate them all so much and I can’t hide it. I don’t actually hate Ethos, not personally, but I hate what he represents, just like I hated what Abel represented. Even if I found a navigator I liked, I would never be able to live someplace like Earth, pretending I was better than everyone else, pretending I was better than I am, pretending things are wonderful all the time. It would fucking kill me. Besides, navigators always expect you to _talk_.  
  
I shouldn’t look down on Marsh for wanting that—I don’t, really, I mean who wants to live in the shithole we came from—but if he does want that he shouldn’t be messing around with me. Not only is it not fair to me (or to the navigator he cheats on to be with me), it isn’t _efficient_.  
  
Fuck him for messing with me again, after all this time. And fuck me for letting him. I’m weak too. Weak and lonely and ill at ease with no one to spy for, no one to eat with, no one to listen to. No one to whisper with in corners, no one to tie up and tease, no one to hold me in his arms and call me sweet names and make me sob with unexpected joy. No purpose to my days. Just routine, and my bitter, whiny, jealous bitch of a navigator, like all my worst thoughts given form and then run through the wash with extra bleach. Why can’t I get one of those wide-eyed, eager-to-please navis? I guess they must give those to the better fighters, the ones who give a shit. Like Marsh. Praxis, I mean. Gah.  
  
Who am I kidding. I had one of those once, when I was Ion, and I drove him off because I couldn’t stand him getting up in my business. Sweet little Anion. He’s back at base now, with a new name and a new fighter, too smart to go on this dumbass mission. Smarter than me. I might have thrown my life away running after someone who didn’t love me, who will never love me. And now I threw away my dignity—again—on someone who thinks he can trade me like a baseball card for the sake of domestic harmony. He’s literally trying to pimp me out to someone I barely know. Either that or he’s just lying, two-timing scum.  
  
I need to show Marsh that I’m not some meek little pawn or gullible fool. He has to learn that his actions have consequences. He wants me to fuck someone else? I’m going to call his bluff on that.  
  
I’m going to seduce Ethos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Я не полный идиот. = I am not a complete idiot.
> 
> Ты говоришь по-русски так хорошо сейчас! = You speak Russian so well now! (I don't think I've put this in a posted story yet, but the implication is that Praxis started to learn Russian as a way to get closer to Deimos.)
> 
> Спасибо. = Thanks.
> 
> Все нормально, дорогой. = It's okay, sweetie/darling/dear.
> 
> Feel free to correct my Russian if I made any mistakes!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deimos decides to seduce Ethos to get revenge on Praxis for...wanting him to sleep with Ethos. This makes perfect sense, don't argue. 
> 
> Ethos, however, may be less pliant than he expected.

I let Ethos catch my eye by the lab as I walk by, then duck my head and keep walking. “Deimos,” he calls hesitantly, folding up his laptop and scrambling to his feet. “Deimos, wait, please.”  
  
I don’t stop, but I slow down enough to let him catch up to me. He lays a very tentative hand on my shoulder, soft as a feather. I can barely feel it. “I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to barge in, or to be so rude. I just—what did Praxis tell you?”  
  
_Hmm. The truth, I guess._ I frown, look around the hallway and back to him.  
  
“Oh, do you mean this isn’t a good place to have this conversation?”  
  
I nod.  
  
“Do you want to go somewhere?” He winces. “I don’t mean like that. I just mean—“  
  
I snort, and jerk my head a little to tell him to follow me. I lead him to my room, because no fucking way are we going to his, and sit down on the floor, leaning my back against the lower bunk. Ethos hesitates again, not sure where to sit, and I glance at the spot next to me. He sits down, and I’m impressed at how well he follows my signals. Language specialization, oh yeah. I could get used to that. I turn my head and eye him expectantly.  
  
“Oh. Yeah. So. Did Praxis tell you…”  
  
I close my eyes like the name is painful to hear, which, to be fair, it is. I open my mouth and wave my hand, then drop it and look confused.  
  
“Did he say something that didn’t make much sense? Or—”  
  
I look at him and wave my hand again, mouthing, Just tell me?  
  
“Just tell you? Um, okay. Uh, so.” Ethos takes a deep breath. “This is really embarrassing. Sorry I’m such a dork. So. Um. I like you. And Praxis likes you, which I guess you know. And we like each other too, but not in that way, just as friends. I think.” He’s getting red, even through that strangely opaque navigator skin. “But as good friends. I feel kind of—emotionally close to him. It was different at first, but now we get along really well. So we were—were thinking maybe it could work if, if you were interested, maybe it could work if you dated both of us, together.”  
  
I watch him, impassive.  
  
He checks my face for signs of horror or outrage, and, finding none, continues. “I know that might sound weird or kinky or something, but I don’t mean it that way. We weren’t thinking of it that way. We were actually imagining getting to know you better for a while first, you know, hanging out together. And I’m absolutely not hitting on you or trying to get an answer about that now, I know it’s the kind of thing you might need a while to think about even if you would be interested. I’m just explaining what was going on.  
  
“So we were going to talk to you about that together, but we hadn’t really decided when. And then I walk in and find him—you know. With you. Already doing stuff. And I was just really shocked because I didn’t think he was that kind of person. And all he would say is sorry, he ran into you and the two of you started talking and things just got out of hand.”  
  
I snort, and it’s not put on. Out of hand. Yeah, I’ll say. “Not an accident,” I whisper.  
  
He blinks, whether because of my scandalous allegation or because I finally spoke. “What wasn’t an accident?”  
  
“He wouldn’t—leave me alone.”  
  
“You don’t mean—“ His round blue eyes widen even further.  
  
I shake my head. “Just—blah blah blah. I want to make you feel better.” I look away.  
  
“Really? Oh my god.”  
  
I look back.  
  
“So did he?” he asks wryly.  
  
I choke out half a laugh, then drop my eyes and let an embarrassed little smile flit over my face, conceding that maybe he did, for a while.  
  
“I just can’t believe he—I can’t believe he did that. You did just break up with Cain, right?”  
  
I let my face go stiff. After a moment, I open my mouth, close it again, and give a tentative nod.  
  
“It’s complicated?”  
  
I nod more firmly.  
  
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I was just…making sure of what he was talking about. When he said make you feel better.”  
  
I sigh and draw my knees up to my chest. I want him to think he’s seducing me, or at least that it’s mutual, but he’s so exquisitely respectful of my personal space that I’m not sure how to go about it. Do I have to cry? I really don’t want to cry. I’m actually starting to feel cheap—he’s so earnestly concerned about my feelings, without that heavy sexual tension Marsh and I share that makes all concern suspect. How can he be attracted to someone and not at least _want_ to get them into bed right away? Maybe he did lie to Marsh to keep him.  
  
“Sorry to—spring all this on you like that. I mostly wanted you to know I wasn’t mad at you. And, well, I guess to be honest I am kind of mad at Praxis for jumping the gun, and I wanted you to know that he did. Which is petty of me.”  
  
I smile and shake my head. “He told me,” I whisper.  
  
“What?! Why—“  
  
“After you came in.”  
  
“OH. Afterwards. Okay.”  
  
“I didn’t—“ I cough. “Didn’t believe him. Well, not sure.”  
  
Ethos shoots a keen glance at me. “Why not?”  
  
I avert my eyes. “It’s…strange. If—you don’t want each other, why do you want to share someone? How…” I make a vague gesture.  
  
“Well it’s not like we find each other physically repulsive. We just um, we’re just not really drawn to each other like that. I’m just not into huge tall guys with all those…muscles.”  
  
I smile, and mouth _ewwwww_.  
  
He giggles. “I just like people who are more my own size. I mean, we like each other. We feel comfortable with each other. Now. Mostly. I mean, sometimes it’s a little weird still, but we feel close.”  
  
I nod tentatively. “Still…not sure why you’d want to be in a…? Is it so you won’t fight?”  
  
“I don’t think that would keep us from fighting. Even fighting over you.” He flashes me a shy smile. “I can’t speak for Praxis, but I like the idea of just…all being together. I don’t mean sexually, necessarily, but…all—this is going to sound so dorky—just lounging around together being comfortable. Where I come from everybody’s so uptight and jumpy, or at least the guys are. The girls are too, in a different way, but they can touch each other without it being sexual. I’ve always wanted to have someone I could be relaxed and—intimate with, I guess. One person is good, but that also makes it more—intense? Which is also good but it’s not always what I want. Two other people would make it less—focused, I guess, but then there’s still the option of being intense when you want to.”  
  
He has a point. Marsh would find it a lot harder to drill right into my soft spots if Ethos was around. Ahem. But I need to remember my purpose here. “It sounds like you just want friends,” I whisper. My throat keeps spasming and trying to close up. I’m doing too much talking, but it seems to be necessary.  
  
“That’s _part_ of what I want. But not all of it. I’m uh, just trying to avoid being sleazy, I guess. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”  
  
I turn and really look at him for the first time. His face twitches with the effort of keeping himself from looking away, but he succeeds, managing a gaze that’s attentive but not overbearing. Usually I’m paying too much attention to physical cues to notice what people look like beyond the minimum necessary to recognize them. Especially navigators; navigators leave me alone, so I can afford to do the same.  
  
He’s pale of course, like other navigators, in that smooth pearly way that’s so different from the sun-starved pallor of colonials. His nose is his most unusual feature (for a navi)—wide and almost perfectly round. I have the ridiculous urge to reach out and press it like a button. I suddenly realize that he looks different from the others in several ways. His nearly-white hair is a wild halo of loose, coarse curls instead of a smooth curtain or artfully gelled straight locks, and his tender shell-pink lips are fuller than most. The typical navigator is thin and small-boned with a narrow, wedge-shaped face, but Ethos’ face is wide, his body broad and sturdy and slightly plump.  
  
On the other hand, he has those big round eyes that make him look much younger than he probably is, and the delicate hands, and the smooth girlish look. The overall effect is somehow both more innocent and more sensual than the others.  
  
I have the feeling that without the mods he would be much taller, darker, and fatter, with more muscle and bigger bones, a deeper voice. I try to imagine what he would look like, and almost succeed. I wonder if his parents got him looking different from the others on purpose—maybe they wanted him to look a little like them? do they have mods too?—or if they didn’t have as much money, or if mods only go so far to change your body and the other navigators started out with small thin pointy-faced genes. I wonder if they treat him differently because of it. I can tell he has lower status than Abel by the way they interact, and by the way he interacts with me, but I don’t know why that is.  
  
He finally clears his throat. “Um, _are_ you uncomfortable?”  
  
I shake my head, then flash him a little grin. “Are you?”  
  
“ _So_ uncomfortable,” he admits with a nervous laugh.  
  
“Sorry,” I mouth.  
  
“It’s not your fault. Even though you were just staring at me. I mean um, that’s not a problem, you can look at me if you want to, I just feel self-conscious all the time. And especially now. It’s my own fault. Because I said things to you.”  
  
I give him a real, full smile. “That’s why I don’t say things.”  
  
Ethos laughs, a real laugh this time. He’s cute.  
  
“I’d rather _do_ things,” I confide, leaning toward him ever so slightly.  
  
His eyes widen. “Well, um, I guess that’s why you’re a fighter. Men of action, and all that.” He winces.  
  
“Navigators do things all the time, don’t they? Almost more than we do. Mine certainly does.”  
  
“Phobos? _Does_ things? Like—”  
  
“You spend more time with him than I do, you must have seen him do things.”  
  
“I try to avoid him as much as possible, actually.”  
  
“Good plan, so do I.”  
  
“He doesn’t do things with you? Uh, I mean—“  
  
I sigh. “Only the bare minimum. He doesn’t like fighters.”  
  
“He doesn’t like most navigators either.”  
  
“But the ones he likes, he really _really_ likes.”  
  
Ethos snorts.  
  
“So, just to make you more uncomfortable,”—I flutter my lashes—“why do _you_ like _me_? You don’t even know me.”  
  
“Um. Uh. Well.” He stops and peers at me. “Wait, are you fishing for compliments?”  
  
“Mmmmaybe. But I am curious. Navigators usually ignore me. I thought you guys all liked the big hulking types.”  
  
“Well some people do, but we’re all individuals, you know.”  
  
I nod.  
  
He waits for me to say something, then realizes I’m waiting for him. “Oh! Yeah. Well I don’t know, it’s hard to put in words exactly…”  
  
“Is it my ass?”  
  
He sputters and goes bright red. “ _Deimos!_ ”  
  
I blink innocently. “No? You don’t like my ass?”  
  
Ethos is laughing almost too hard to speak. “Deimos! You’re so—”  
  
“My ass is very sensitive. Now you’ve hurt its feelings.”  
  
He covers his face with his hands.  
  
“It’s going to be sulking _all day_ now.”  
  
He peeks out between his fingers. “How can you tell?”  
  
I gasp. “So mean!”  
  
“I didn’t mean it like that!”  
  
“Sure you didn’t,” I say reproachfully. I pat the bit of it that isn’t touching the floor. “It’s okay, he says he didn’t mean it. It must have been one of those subtle and erudite jokes with which navigators amuse each other.”  
  
Ethos drops his hands from his face and narrows his eyes. “Now you’re trying to trick me into saying it _wasn’t_ a joke.”  
  
I blink. “It wasn’t?”  
  
He draws himself up. “I’m starting to wonder if your ass is really as sensitive as you say it is. Ohmygosh that sounded terrible!” He dissolves in giggles again.  
  
“Why would you doubt my ass? Has it ever lied to you?”  
  
“Your ass didn’t say anything,” he points out. “That was all you. And you’re sitting on it, so how sensitive can it be? Oh no, I did it again.” This time we both crack up.  
  
It would be impolitic to mention it, but my ass is actually pretty sore right now. I wouldn’t mind if he touched it, though. He is really, really bad at taking hints. Marsh would have been all over my ass with a fulsome physical apology in seconds. “Okay, I’ll stop making butt jokes. I bet what you liked about me was that I was quiet and mysterious.”  
  
Ethos grins. “Now you’re loud and mysterious. That’s fine.”  
  
“I switch back and forth.”  
  
“How do you manage to make everything sound like a double entendre?”  
  
“It’s all in the eyes.”  
  
“Oh god, I hope _that_ wasn’t a double entendre.”  
  
“Ugh, no, actually it wasn’t meant to be. Clearly I’m in double entendre overdrive. Or maybe you just have a dirty mind.” I look at him hopefully.  
  
“I scrub my mind thoroughly every morning,” Ethos says. “I don’t think it has a chance to get that dirty. It must be you.”  
  
“That sounds painful. I’ve never scrubbed my mind at all.”  
  
“Well there you go. No wonder it’s filthy.”  
  
“Filth is a mind’s natural environment. It’s like soil for a tree.”  
  
“I never thought of it that way.”  
  
“Without filth, the mind cannot grow and be nourished.”  
  
“Hey, are you calling my mind underdeveloped?”  
  
I switch to my side, stretching out my legs and leaning my head on the bunk. “No, you must have some kind of hydroponic system. To cope with the distressing lack of filth in your environment.”  
  
“There’s been plenty of filth in my environment recently,” Ethos says tartly. Ooh.  
  
“Is your mind feeling nourished?”  
  
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”  
  
I open my mouth, then close it again. “I guess we both got surprised. Not exactly in a good way.”  
  
He sighs. “I just wish I knew why he did it. I trusted him. I mean, I guess it feels kind of petty of me to be mad at him considering what our agreement was about, but we did have an agreement. And first impressions matter.”  
  
I stare at the floor. I have the impulse to tell him everything but that’s stupid, I hardly know him. “Sometimes people’s emotions can get…out of control.”  
  
“But how does that lead to…that? I mean, I have emotions too but I don’t go and just…grab someone out of the hallway and drag them back to my room.”  
  
I smile. “He didn’t exactly drag me.” _I wish he would drag me_ , the thought pops up. _Or even better, throw me over his shoulder._ Shut up, mind.  
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
I shrug. “Fighters are different.”  
  
“Have you ever dragged anyone back to your room?”  
  
“You’re here, aren’t you?” I flutter my eyelashes at him again to make it a joke.  
  
He startles anyway, but recovers. “That’s not the same! I jumped out and talked to you first. And we’re also not, um, doing anything like that.”  
  
“We could be.” This time it’s not really a joke.  
  
“Okay, that’s another thing. Why are you flirting with me? You don’t even know me.”  
  
“You don’t even know me and you decided you wanted to be in a three-way relationship with me,” I point out.  
  
“I wanted to…figure out if it would work! Like I said, I’d want to get to know you first.”  
  
“How do you get to know people if you don’t have sex with them?”  
  
Ethos stares at me. “You…talk to them?”  
  
“Oh.” I digest this.  
  
“You were serious?”  
  
I glare and turn around again, my back to the bunk.  
  
“I’m sorry, you have trouble talking, right? I almost forgot.”  
  
“You forgot I was whispering this whole time?”  
  
“Sort of. I just adapt to whatever the linguistic conventions are when I’m communicating with someone. I mean…I guess I’ve been whispering too for a while, now that I realize it.”  
  
Huh, he has. Marsh lowers his voice to match my volume better, but he doesn’t usually whisper unless we’re right up next to each other’s faces. “Well, you heard what…Cain said. About me.”  
  
I can feel Ethos studying me. “I don’t think he knows you very well.”  
  
My teeth are bared and I’m hissing at him before I even know what I’m doing. He startles a little but holds firm. I deflate, stare at the floor again, feel dizzy and sick. “No,” a brittle little voice says somewhere far away, “maybe not.”    
  
I wanted to think that He knew me, knew everything about me, all my bad thoughts and weaknesses, and forgave them. I wanted to think He knew me and loved me, just not in that way, maybe in a purer way, that he respected me too much to fuck me, or knew fucking me would give me false hope, because He had other plans. But maybe He just didn’t know, didn’t care, didn’t give a shit as long as I was useful to Him, and I was more useful if I didn’t have what I wanted.  
  
I know what you’re thinking, this is idolatry, I’m being punished for it, but what other god is there, really? He was right there, real and solid and smelling of smoke and sweat and engine oil. I could hear His voice and feel His body close to mine and His hands pushing me away. No one had to tell me to believe in Him. And besides, He was a lot kinder and a lot braver than the one they talk about in church. All He does is fight people; that one sits up on a throne in the sky and reaches down and tosses them into the fire forever, at whim, no risk to himself. Fuck that god. But He isn’t a god either, there isn’t any god, and maybe that’s good and maybe it’s bad, but all I know is I’m so lonely, floating out here in the emptiness of space, so cold. It’s going to kill me some day and I won’t even notice. No one will notice. I’ll just keep drifting silently through my day and my eyes will cave in, my teeth will fall out, the flesh will sag off of my fingers and be held in place only by my gloves, and—  
  
“Deimos? Are you okay?”  
  
“Hmm?” Oh. I nod.  
  
Ethos reaches out and very tentatively pats my arm. I look up at him dumbly. “You were talking just fine, I thought.”  
  
I wrap my arms around my knees. “Well, I don’t usually.”  
  
“Seriously though, you come out sounding a lot smarter than most of the navigators I know. I mean, you’ve heard Phobos. ‘ _Look at him, he’s such a slut. Fawwwwk you Ayyybel.’_ ”  
  
I burst out laughing in spite of myself. “Phobos doesn’t set a very high bar.”  
  
“He’s so much smarter than he acts. I don’t know why he has to be so immature.”  
  
“Maybe he wants people to leave him alone.”  
  
He considers. “I never thought of that. He’s kind of aggressive for someone who wants to be left alone, though.”  
  
“Sometimes you have to be aggressive.”  
  
Ethos studies me again. “Do you want to be left alone?”  
  
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Yes. No. Yes, but then I get lonely. Don’t tell—“ Shit. I was about to say don’t tell Marsh. What is wrong with me?  
  
“Don’t tell who?”  
  
“Anyone.”  
  
“You mean Praxis?”  
  
“How did you know I meant him? That is creepy.” What’s creepier is I suddenly want Marsh with me, holding me, attentive and affectionate but not reading my fucking mind.  
  
“It wasn’t hard to guess,” he says gently. “He’s my friend, that I talk to a lot, and you were just—with him.”  
  
Oh. Of course. I close my eyes. “I’m an idiot.”  
  
“You’re just going through a hard time.”  
  
“Pfft. This is cake. I mean look at me. I’m sitting here in this nice room, with nice clothes, and I get free food and free internet and free gym, and they pay me for it. And you’re sitting here with me being nice, and someone else wants to be nice to me, oh, the tragedy.”  
  
He squints. “You think this room is nice?”  
  
“You think it isn’t?”  
  
“Sorry, I just—it’s just really small.”  
  
“But it’s in perfect condition and it’s clean and there are no roaches or anything.” Don’t ask me how roaches got to Mars. They get everywhere. Except this ship, apparently.  
  
Ethos shudders.  
  
I pat the floor. “I mean look at this. Completely solid, no crumbles, nothing rotting or peeling off. There aren’t even any cracks in the ceiling. It’s like a sim.”  
  
“But—okay.” He ponders. “You changed the subject!”  
  
Dammit. “No I didn’t. I just pointed out that other than the occasional risk of possibly dying, this is a cushy setup. So I’m not having a hard time.”  
  
“You can still have a hard time in nice surroundings.”  
  
“I’m having trouble with that concept.”  
  
“Well, did you think navigators never had a hard time?”  
  
“Uh…I don’t know. You seem like aliens to me.” Why did I say that out loud?  
  
“Why is that?”  
  
“Well…you’re literally from a different planet.”  
  
He laughs. “Okay, that’s true. But we are still human.”  
  
No you’re not, no human would put up with me for this long. At least not without trying to get in my pants. He is trying to get in my pants though—except not right now, for some reason? I’m still confused about that. “Yeah, I guess.”  
  
“Okay, I guess you don’t want to talk about it, so I’ll stop bothering you.”  
  
“I can’t even keep track of which thing we’re avoiding talking about at this point.” I turn around again to face him, studying him again. What am I even doing? Wasn’t I supposed to be seducing him or something? That seems ridiculous now. His views are infecting me. I’m so tired. I’m so cold. I lean my head against the bunk again.  
  
“Is it tiring you out to talk this long? I can go. Or be quiet or something.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous. Why would talking tire me out? It’s just words.”  
  
“Words are heavy.” Ethos smiles.  
  
I laugh because I don’t want to think about how true that is, or how he knew that. “Is that what you navigators do? Work out in the word gym all day? Get big bulging neurons?”  
  
“Some of that. We have to vary our workout though, you know, do some code-io.”  
  
I sit up. “That is the worst pun I have ever heard.”  
  
“Why thank you.”  
  
“That should be on the inside of a gum wrapper. Joke by Ethos, age seven.”  
  
“Hey, I’m a lot older than that.”  
  
“You don’t want them to know that, though. Otherwise they might arrest you for your crimes against the English language.”  
  
“A language is just a dialect with an army. I’m already in the English language’s army.”  
  
“Then you’ll get court-martialed.”  
  
“Not if you don’t tell.” He looks at me hopefully.  
  
“Hmm,” I ponder. “But that would be failing in my sacred duty.”  
  
“You don’t have any duty to English, just to Russian. I didn’t offer any insult to the Russian language.”  
  
“That in and of itself is an insult. We expect to be insulted on a regular basis. How else would we have an excuse to fight?”  
  
“I didn’t know you needed an excuse.”  
  
“Oooh. Sassy. Now you’re definitely getting sent to the gulag.”  
  
“Uh oh. What will I do?”  
  
I lean closer. “Well…we Russians are not averse to a little bribery.”  
  
Ethos raises his eyebrows. “And what kind of bribes do you take?”  
  
“Oh, the usual. Top shelf vodka, designer jeans, kisses…”  
  
He bursts out laughing again, shaking his head, but his cheeks look a little pink this time. “You are awful.”  
  
“That’s me. So what’ll it be?”  
  
“I don’t know…”  
  
“You don’t know whether kissing me is worse than ten years of hard labor in subzero conditions? With…” I pause dramatically, “…nothing to read?”  
  
His eyes flash. “I don’t know—are you one of those guys who stick their tongues in people’s mouths?”  
  
“Yes, I just go up to random people all the time and stick my tongue right in their mouths. Bering was really surprised at our first briefing, but he got used to it.”  
  
“Oh god, THANK YOU for that image. Now I don’t want to kiss anyone ever again.”  
  
I scoot a little closer. “I could help you forget it.”  
  
Ethos swallows. “I still don’t really know why—“  
  
“I’m curious. And you’re cute.” And I want to do something I’m good at for once.  
  
He glances away, then back, flushing deeper. “I—um…”  
  
“If you don’t like it, you can send me to the gulag instead.”  
  
He takes a deep breath. “Okay then. But your tongue had better stay in your mouth, or you’ll go to the gulag _without_ it.”  
  
“Yes, sir. Understood.” I’m really going to have to ask him what his problem is with tongues. After I kiss him.  
  
“Bad,” he mutters, laughing under his breath.  
  
“That’s right,” I whisper, leaning forward to touch my mouth to his.  
  
He makes a face. “That’s all?!”  
  
I laugh. “Well, get over here then.”  
  
Ordinarily I would just get on his lap, or pull him down onto the floor, but I feel like this just-kissing thing probably has different rules. We fumble around trying to arrange ourselves into a position that gives us frontal contact without actually simulating sex, and end up reclining on our sides, leaning on one elbow. He wraps his other arm around my back, and I cup the back of his head, tangling my fingers in his hair. It’s wiry but smooth, somehow.  
  
“This is ridiculous,” he whispers, mouth an inch away.  
  
“I know.” I hesitate for one moment more, then let myself close the gap. His lips are silky, firm, and pliant all at once; we move slowly, agonizingly slowly. For a fraction of a section I forget about the rule and let the tip of my tongue slide against his lower lip. He doesn’t seem to mind; in fact he hums a little under his breath and pulls me closer. He’s warm and surprisingly strong, and I wish he would just push me down and lie on top of me, this is so frustrating. The kiss speeds up, gets sloppier, we’re panting and then his tongue plunges into my mouth, what the—? but hey, I’m not complaining.  
  
His hand wanders lower until he’s stroking the small of my back, and I arch up to encourage him to move even lower. Finally he takes the hint, and his hand slides down to cup and stroke my ass. I’m making needy little noises and trying to plaster myself against him, and I feel him getting hard, and I’m thinking maybe this could go somewhere after all, god I really hope so because I might die otherwise, when suddenly he pushes me away, panting, “That’s enough.”  
  
I lean back against the bunk, breathless, too dizzy to think. “I thought you didn’t like tongues,” my tongue says.  
  
“I don’t like _rude_ tongues.”  
  
“Oh.” We sit in silence for a minute. I’m trying to decide if I want him to go away so I can jerk off. Strangely it’s a hard decision to make. I almost feel like it should be his decision. Self, you are weird. “So, am I safe from the gulag?”  
  
Ethos blinks slowly, turning to look at me. “Hmm? Oh.”  
  
“Well?”  
  
He smiles. “For the moment.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“I might need to gather a second round of data later, under different conditions. Just to be sure.”  
  
“How about now?”    
  
“Under DIFFERENT conditions.”  
  
“Aww.” Ethos. Ethos Ethos Ethos. What do I do now. I don’t know what to do. “So…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“What now?”  
  
“Um…hmm.” His eyes are a little unfocused. “Well, let’s see. We did my thing, which is talking, and we did your thing, or—a little of your thing…”  
  
“I don’t know, it kind of seemed like it was your thing too.”  
  
“I mean, it was what you said was your way of getting to know people. Do you really do this with everyone?”  
  
“Well…there aren’t a lot of people I want to get to know.” And not everyone I want to get to know wants to do that.  
  
“Aww, I’m flattered! So, um. Um. What kind of music do you listen to?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Well that’s an important part of getting to know someone.”  
  
“Oh. Uh. I don’t really have any, I mostly just listen to stations and playlists.” I don’t know why I’m lying. Music is _personal_ , okay?  
  
“We could play each other some songs. You could probably find some of the ones you like on the intranet, right? Unless they’re really…indie?”  
  
I think. “Okay. You go first though.” _What am I doing what am I doing._  
  
“All right.” He unfolds his laptop and taps for a few moments, then sets it down between us like the naked swords in King Arthur stories. Birds chirp and trill, and the plucking sounds of a stringed instrument patter out like a fawn into a clearing. A rush of mellow piano notes follow, then some tenor that’s warm but a little whiny and affected-sounding, so that it irritates me just enough to listen to the words. They don’t make a lot of sense.  
  
I don’t know what I’m supposed to be listening for in this music. Is it some kind of specific pattern? Does the choice of instruments symbolize something, either something that everyone knows, so it’s a message like the Old Earth language of flowers that I read about once, or is it something that the composer makes up and you have to figure it out yourself? Do the words have meanings I don’t understand? Are they a code that Earth people understand? Is it a code that only Ethos understands? What if everyone understands this but me and it’s obvious and I’m stupid and he finds out?  
  
I sneak a peek at Ethos, and find that he’s sneaking a peek at me. He bursts out laughing.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m sorry, you just look so anxious.”  
  
“I don’t know how to _do_ this!”    
  
“You don’t really have to do anything.”  
  
“But…then what are we doing?”  
  
“We’re learning. And relaxing.”  
  
“I’m not relaxed,” I say plaintively.  
  
“I can tell. Are you scared?” he teases. “Should I hold your hand?”  
  
I mock-glare at him, then relent. “Yes, please.”  
  
“Aww, okay.”  
  
His hand closes around mine, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I lean back against the bunk and close my eyes. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be listening for, but maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’ll be okay.  
  
The door opens and Phobos charges in, only to stop short at the sight of us. His hand flies to his mouth. “Ohmygod. Oh. My. God. I need a picture of this.”  
  
“Take one and I’ll shave your head with a butcher knife,” I hiss.  
  
“Ooh! Promises, promises. Don’t worry, kids, I’m not here to break up your junior high study date.” He tilts his head and purses his lips thoughtfully. “No, not even junior high. Elementary school study date. I’m just here to pick up a few things and then I’ll be off. Have funnnnn!”  
  
***  
  
I nearly had an ulcer by the time Ethos got back to our room. He wasn’t in the lab, he wasn’t in the Tiberius, no one had seen him for at least two hours, and he wasn't answering my messages. The door whirred open and I leaped up off my bunk out of sheer fright.  
  
Ethos looked at me and just laughed.  
  
I stared at him, afraid to ask. He laughed even harder on his way to the bathroom, and I could hear him still laughing while he brushed his teeth. He’d finally stopped laughing by the time he came back out, but he started again when he saw my face. He climbed up the ladder to his bunk, still chuckling, and I heard the covers rustle as he got under them.  
  
I waited until he stopped laughing, and then waited some more, digging my fingernails into my arm to calm myself down. When the silence became so thick that my teeth hurt, I finally forced myself to speak. “So….um….”  
  
“Shush. It’s bedtime.”  
  
“But—“  
  
“Shhh.”  
  
I pulled the covers up to my chin and accepted my fate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is Deimos SO mad at Praxis? Ethos decides to make them talk.

I wake up sobbing, my pillow a swampy, snotty mess. Or maybe I should say a marshy mess, since it’s his fault.  
  
I dreamed I was telling Marsh, “I love you, I love you,” and he just smiled vaguely and patted my shoulder while staring off into the distance. I started crying and tugging at his sleeve like a child. “But Marsh, I love you, I really do!”  
  
“Mm hmm,” he said, glancing down at me. The worst part is that he sounded encouraging, as if I weren’t saying it right yet but I was almost there.  
  
“Marsh,” I wailed. “How do I show you? How do I prove I love you?”  
  
“Don’t worry about it.” He gazed off into the distance again. “It doesn’t matter.”  
  
I took out a knife that doesn’t exist and cut a window into my chest. It didn’t hurt, but when I reached inside I couldn’t find my heart. There was nothing in there at all.  
  
Now I feel like I might throw up, but Phobos will see I’ve been crying if I get down from the bunk. Even if it’s dark. I don’t know how he does it.  
  
Brain, I am very disappointed in you.  
  
***  
  
It took me a long time to get to sleep. I listened to Ethos’ breathing above me and wondered over and over where he’d been, what he’d been doing. He must have been with Deimos—why else would he have laughed like that? But maybe he’d just gone to some navigator friends instead and they’d got him drunk, on their company if not on real alcohol. I hadn’t smelled any on him, but who knows, maybe on Earth they have some fancy kind that doesn’t smell, that teenagers can hide from their parents and employees can drink without their bosses knowing.  
  
_God, I miss having real friends. Everyone’s so macho and obnoxious here, even if they’re kissing up to you because you’re bigger and stronger. You can’t ever just relax and be friendly._ It got better back at base once people settled into their places and stopped pecking at each other like chickens, but once we got on the Sleipnir the whole thing started up all over again. I missed Pavel too—well, Theseus, now—although things got kind of weird with him before I shipped off on the Sleipnir. I never quite understood him, but I liked being around him. He didn’t play power games, and he said interesting things.  
  
I thought Ethos could be my friend, and he had been for a while, but now I was afraid this thing with Deimos might set us back, or worse. It seemed like such a good idea while we were talking about it, but now I wasn’t sure what I’d been thinking. Why _would_ Deimos agree to that? He was furious when Kasimir propositioned me—he’s probably monogamous, even if he was latched onto Cain while he was seeing me.  
  
I guess my brain was a little scrambled that late woozy night, when Ethos and I scraped up the plan over most of a bottle of whiskey. The conversation drifted to the topic of who we thought was cute (we carefully avoided the subject of Abel), and Ethos mentioned Deimos. My judgment was impaired enough that I enthusiastically agreed, and added that I’d been wanting to lure him away from Cain for a long time.  
  
Ethos whispered—why did he bother to whisper?—that now might be our chance. He hadn’t seen them eating together for the past few days, since just before the latest battle, and Cain had looked uneasy and out of sorts.  
  
My mouth instantly went dry and I swigged from the bottle.  
  
“Wow, you really meant it,” he giggled. “You look so serious and intense.”  
  
“I don’t know if he would want me, though,” I glowered, sitting back.  
  
“Why not, you’re gorrrrgeous. Look at this…these shoulders. Who wouldn’t want these shoulders?” He leaned over and encouragingly squeezed my upper arm. “And you’re nice. Sometimes. It’s me he wouldn’t want.”  
  
“You’re crazy,” I slurred. “Have you looked ina mirror? You’re so cute an’—an’ kissable.”  
  
His face wavered dangerously close, eyes wide and surprised. His lips really were—something Deimos might like. If he had any sense. Not that Deimos has been known to have any sense, I mean, look who he hangs around with. “I—um…”  
  
“An’ you’re actually nice,” I continued. “Not like me. I’m a jerk.”  
  
“He seems to like jerks,” Ethos blurted out, and then giggled again.  
  
I sat back. “If I’m a jerk an’ you’re nice, maybe it’s like good cop/bad cop?”  
  
He laughed. “We’re not interrogating him, we’re trying to…uhhh….”  
  
“We need a much lewder third person to make a crude gesture for us.”  
  
Ethos’ eyes sparkled with mischief, and he made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and—  
  
“JOS MIO, I cannot believe you just did that.”  
  
“Maybe I’m not as innocent as I look.”  
  
“I guess not!”  
  
He leaned forward again. “So, are we gonna fight over him? Like fighters? Or are we gonna share like in kindergarten?”  
  
“Well that wouldn’t be much of a fair fight. ‘Sides, we’re not supposed to fight, we’re partners.”  
  
“I dint mean…fisticuffs.”  
  
“Doesnit—doesn’t it depend on whether he wants…what he wants?”  
  
“Well yeah, of course.” He hiccuped.  
  
“What if he only wants…one of us?”  
  
Ethos held his head and collapsed across my lap. “Ugh, I dunno. Why’d you have to be realistic like that? We’re in imaginationland. In imaginationland he likes both of us.”  
  
“Sorry. Forget I said that. He totally likes both of us.” I petted his hair. It was coarse but smooth; my fingers didn’t get tangled in it the way I thought they might. I never thought of my skin as particularly dark, but my hand looked brown in his hair, it was so pale. No, not pale—bright, like the rind of a lemon. I will probably always feel a little guilty about this—I definitely felt guilty about it when I was with Deimos—but I never get tired of looking at navigators. They’re so exotic and lovely, like rare orchids. Each one is a little different.  
  
I was amazed that I got one for myself, to live with and talk to and look after—although why they gave me another one after I failed to protect the first, I don’t know. It was stupid of me to avoid Ethos for so long just because I failed before. They weren’t going to take him away just because I didn’t look after him, because he could look after himself as long as we didn’t go out into combat. And they wouldn’t send us out together as long as our scores were low. Now I practiced with him as much as possible, in case we were attacked and they needed everyone out there to defend the Sleipnir, but I also messed up on purpose to keep our scores low. I let him think it’s because of the eyepatch, or because of nerves. You can call me a coward—I don’t care. I just couldn’t let another sweet, clever, lively boy go forever silent, slumped in a bloody heap over the panels, all on account of my clumsiness.  
  
Ethos sighed happily and wrapped an arm around my knee. “I think I might be jealous if he only liked you and you two got together. I wouldn’t try to stop you or anything but I’m just not good enough to not be jealous at all. Would you be jealous if he only liked me? Hard to imagine I know, but ‘maginationland.”  
  
“Hmm…” I pictured Deimos getting up on Ethos’ lap, straddling him aggressively the way he used to do to me, the sleek shiny black head and the soft curly cream one bending together for one of those hot slow deep kisses that used to leave us panting and rubbing desperately against each other. Deimos pushing Ethos down on his back and Ethos’ breathless laugh as his hands undo Deimos’ pants and pull them down to knead and caress and—okay, that’s enough. I checked my own pants in horror and concluded that it would be okay as long as Ethos didn’t turn his head around, or get any closer. It would be more okay if I could manage to get myself under control, though. “Probably? This all seems so theoretical, though.”  
  
“Well yeh we’re drunk.” He giggled.    
  
“Anything’s possible when we’re drunk.”  
  
“Like both of us dating Deimos. Maybe we should be drunk when we ask him.”  
  
“You think we should ask him together?” For some reason this struck me as funny.  
  
“Well yeah, if we’re gonna date him together.”  
  
“Whoa.” This is not helping my trouser situation at all. “I thought—I thought we were gonna just—both date him. Not all—“  
  
“Ohmygod no, I don’t mean be a—complete threesome, with it going all the ways. Ohmygod.” He hid his face with one hand. “I mean, just like…all be together, but as a…tripod, not a triangle.”  
  
“Wouldn’t a tripod be four people, with three of them dating the fourth?”  
  
“You know what I MEAN.”  
  
“I’m still not sure what you mean, actually. How would that work exactly?” Yes Ethos, give me details.  
  
“Well, we’d have to figure it out as we went along. I just—I just want us all to be able to hang out together and be comfortable. If we were both dating him separately it could get weird. Neither of us would know what was going on with the other two, and we’d get nervous, or at least I’d get nervous, and maybe jealous even though we were both dating him. If we were all together it would be…nice and together-y.”  
  
“Aww.” I combed his hair with my fingers. “Together-y sounds nice. But I dunno know how to sell that point. He might stab us.”  
  
“He wouldn’t stab us. We’re not trying to hurt him.”  
  
“He stabbed _me_ once, and I was just standing there with my back to him.” _Shit, that was probably a mistake. But maybe I want Ethos to know what he’s getting into._  
  
“He what?!”  
  
“Well, just a little bit.”  
  
“Why would he do that?!”  
  
“I may have been questioning Cain’s infinite wisdom at the time.”  
  
“Oh my god. He really stabbed you?”  
  
“Like I said, a little.” I decided to omit the part where he’d just pressed the knife point up against my back and then I leaned on it. If you pull a knife on someone, you have to expect that you might end up cutting them with it, right? So it’s basically the same as stabbing. “I didn’t have to go to medical or anything.” I have a nice scar, though. Deimos used to lick it sometimes, and then tell me I was an idiot.  
  
“But you still want to date him.”  
  
“Uh, yeah.”  
  
“So you either don’t mind being stabbed, or you think he’s worth the stabbing.”  
  
I yawned. “Yeah.”  
  
I’d tried to say it lightly, but Ethos turned and looked up at my face. “You _are_ serious.”  
  
“You weren’t?”  
  
“Why didn’t you try before?”  
  
I shrugged, glad that matters in my lower regions had settled down. “Cain is obviously his first priority. Maybe they’re together in some way, I don’t know. But in any case, Cain hates me, so…”  
  
“I see. But if he’s not with Cain anymore…”  
  
“Right. Which is how this whole conversation started.”  
  
“An ouroboros,” said Ethos.  
  
“A what?”  
  
“A snake that eats its own tail.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“This conversation is. That.”  
  
“Oh. All right.”  
  
The day after we discussed it more seriously, careful to remove any traces of unseemliness from the idea. We wanted to _get to know_ Deimos. We wanted to _be friends with_ Deimos. And if that happened to develop into something more, so be it. But we had to let him know what we were contemplating from the beginning, so he could make an informed decision as to whether he wanted to get on board the Tiberius crazy train (my words—Ethos forbade me from using them in our sales pitch). What we didn’t quite manage to decide on was _when_.  
  
I was steamrolled by Ethos’ sweet reason, his honest confessions, his hopeful optimism. But to be entirely honest, the idea itself sounded good to me. I liked lounging around with Ethos and petting his hair and listening to his soft gentle voice prattling about things I’d never understand. And I was afraid of facing Deimos on my own. I was afraid that even if he took me back I would never be enough for him, never strong enough or good enough to bear the force of his pain and mistrust. Maybe Ethos could help, could show him that sometimes it can be safe to relax around other people. Maybe Ethos would be smart enough to understand things about him that I didn’t, because Deimos’ intellect exhausts me sometimes, even though he barely lets it show.  
  
Now I was lying there again listening, waiting for Ethos to wake up so I could ask him what happened. If I dared. I finally decided to go take a shower, on the reasoning that I had to do it eventually anyway and I might as well get something done while I waited. When I came back in, a light was shining softly from the upper bunk and I could hear the clicking of keys. The typing stopped briefly as I walked in, then resumed at a furious pace.  
  
I hunted some clothes out of the drawer, mostly by feel, and took them back to my bunk to get dressed. A muffled giggle came from above. I sat down and scowled upward. Fine. If that’s how it was going to be. I pulled my clothes on (hoping nothing was on backwards), opened up my tablet and, just to make sure, checked my messages. Nothing from either of them. Another quiet giggle from above.  
  
I bit the bullet and sent Ethos a message: _Good morning_.  
  
_Ethos: And a good morrow to you, sirrah._  
  
_Praxis: And a very early morrow it is._  
  
_Ethos: Very early, and very dark._  
  
_Praxis: If only there were torches in this chamber. Or perhaps a candle._  
  
_Ethos: I thought perhaps you were afeared of torches._  
  
_Praxis: Har har. Only in combination with pitchforks. Did you bring pitchforks?_  
  
_Ethos: Mayhap yes, and mayhap no. Should I have?_  
  
_Praxis: I don’t know, would it give you joy to drive the tines into my helpless, writhing body?_  
  
  
A snort from above, and some tapping that didn’t show up on my screen. After a bit:  
  
  
_Ethos: If not I, some other may delight in this past-time. Past-tine._  
  
_Praxis: Oh I bet he would._  
  
  
Ethos sucked in a breath.  
  
  
_Praxis: Tell him he can come and try it anytime he wants to._  
  
_Ethos: …he says he shan’t sully his tines with your filthy blood._  
  
_Praxis: He could always borrow someone else’s, if he doesn’t want to get his own dirty._  
  
_Ethos: …he says “What a considerate monster. Perhaps he should consider that the villagers may have more pressing matters than himself at hand.”_  
  
_Praxis: Well of course. I only thought he might like it._  
  
_Ethos: …he says YOU definitely wouldn’t. Okay this is getting a little out of hand._  
  
_Praxis: Hey, I didn’t ask you to start relaying messages._  
  
_Ethos: …technically you did._  
  
_Praxis: …Oh, I guess I did. Sorry._  
  
_Ethos: I’m going to add him._  
  
**_Deimos has joined the chat._**  
  
_Ethos: I thought you two should talk directly._  
  
**_Deimos has left the chat._**  
  
_Ethos: oh ffs_  
_just a minute_

 

I waited. From above, Ethos tapped and sighed. I turned over, stretched, rotated my ankles.

  
  
**_Deimos has joined the chat._**  
  
_Ethos: Okay. Now kiss and make up, you two. Maybe without the kissing though._  
  
_Deimos: I must admit I have a hard time keeping track of what the two of you want. Is it kissing, or no kissing? Pitchforks, or no pitchforks?_  
  
_Praxis: You know I’m always in favor of both._  
  
_Deimos: Is that so._  
  
  
Shit. Sorry, baby, sorry.  
  
  
_Praxis: Well, I just thought it was obvious. Don’t I look like a guy who wants to be stabbed?_  
  
_Deimos: Your behavior does imply that. Although you don’t particularly act like someone who wants kisses—that is, someone who wants to ensure a steady supply of them._  
  
_Praxis: Maybe I’m just an idiot._  
  
_Deimos: That is a distinct possibility._  
  
_Praxis: What would you like me to do?_  
  
_Deimos: I suppose I shouldn’t tell you to jump out the airlock—you’re stupid enough that you might actually do it._  
  
_Ethos: Ok ok, no name-calling! And no telling people…stuff like that._  
  
_Deimos: No, SIR. ;)_  
  
_Ethos:_ (#^_^#)  
  
_Praxis: I guess you two talked last night._  
  
_Deimos: What a brilliant deduction. Give this boy a gold star._  
  
_Ethos: Yes, we had a chat._  
  
_Deimos: Among other things._  
  
_Ethos: DEIMOS_  
  
_Deimos: Sorry? I didn’t realize the music appreciation session was a secret._  
  
**_Deimos is typing…_**  
  
_Ethos: DEIMOSSSS_  
_you are supposed to be working things out with Praxis_  
_not taunting him_  
  
_Deimos: What can I say, he’s eminently tauntable. He’s a veritable tauntaun of tauntability._  
  
_Praxis: You better not say that I smell worse on the inside…_  
  
_Deimos: You said it, not me. O:)_  
  
_Ethos: That’s enough, you two._  
  
_Praxis: Well, I tried to say it once—let me try it again. What do you want me to do?_  
  
_Deimos: Suffer._  
  
_Ethos: !_  
  
_Deimos: I’m just being honest._  
  
_Praxis: Any particular degree of suffering? For any particular length of time?_  
  
_Deimos: Hmm._  
_Preferably the kind where you’re burning up inside, like fire ants or acid_  
_but you can’t tell anyone about it and you just have to paste a smile on your face and go on with your day._  
_For…as long as I feel like it._  
  
_Praxis: What makes you think I don’t already feel like that?_  
  
_Deimos: Your smile is more of a shit-eating grin and less the rictus of politely hidden agony._  
_I want to see a full-on rictus with brimming but never-quite-shed tears as you clutch your stomach and shuffle stiffly around as if you were trying to conceal a family of radioactive weasels devouring your intestines from the inside._  
  
_Praxis: Jesus._  
  
_Ethos: Deimos, I’m starting to wonder where all this is coming from. I’m mad at Praxis, but I’m not THAT mad._  
  
_Praxis: Yeah Deimos, where IS this all coming from? What exactly did I do to you that would merit that kind of vitriol?_  
  
**_Deimos is typing…_**  
  
_Praxis: I hope it’s an exhaustive and very complete list. Just so we all get the full picture._  
  
_Ethos: >_> Praxis_  
  
_Praxis: Sorry._  
  
_Deimos: No you’re not._  
  
_Praxis: I am sincerely trying to be. But you’re not making it easy._  
  
_Deimos: Who said I had to make it easy?_  
  
_Praxis: No one. But you don’t have to make it impossible either._  
  
_Ethos: In mah baby brain…a suhtin conviction is beginnin' to fo'm._  
  
_Deimos: What?_  
  
_Praxis: What?_  
  
_Ethos: Never mind, it’s just a quote._  
  
_Deimos: Praxis we have PE in 10 minutes_  
  
_Praxis: oh yes, forgot_  
  
_Ethos: Just that you two—wait, you never have PE this early._  
  
_Praxis: It’s a punishment. Someone slacked off and Encke sentenced all of us to detention basically. It’s a peer pressure thing._  
  
_Deimos: Stupid but we have to go or he’ll pound our asses.  (oh noes!) ;)_  
  
_Ethos: Hmm okay. See you both later, then?_  
  
_Praxis: Yep._  
  
_Deimos: You’ll see me and smell him._  
  
_Ethos: DEIMOS_  
  
_Praxis: I just took a shower, thank you very much._  
  
_Deimos: A cold one I hope BYE :D_  
  
**_Deimos has left the chat._**  
  
I couldn’t help but chuckle at that as I closed my tablet and swung up out of bed. Ethos was staring at me over the edge of the upper bunk, his expression unreadable.  
  
“Jos mio, you scared me!” I yelped.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“So…you two seem to be getting along.”  
  
“Don’t you have to get to PE?”  
  
“Yeah. Practice at fourteen?”  
  
“Mm hmm.” This dissolved into a yawn halfway through.  
  
“Okay, bye.”  
  
“Bye.”  
  
I stepped out into the bright light of the hallway, and blinked until my eyes adjusted. I had no early PE, as Ethos probably suspected, but I should go and pretend that I did because what else was I going to do this early?  
  
I took the lift down to the fighters’ level, then walked out to the gym. The halls were nearly deserted, and the gym was empty except for a few people practicing some kind of eerily graceful slow-motion martial art. I got on the treadmill and watched them for a while, then sat down on the mat to stretch. I was folded over myself trying to grab my own feet without bending my legs—I’m never half as flexible as I should be—when a shadow fell over me.  
  
“What a rigorous program of exercise.” Deimos’ soft dry whisper prickled the hairs on the back of my neck and sent the blood rushing to my groin. _Fuck._  
  
I turned and looked him right in the eye as he crouched next to me. “You don’t exactly look sweaty yourself.”  
  
“Maybe I just don’t sweat.”  
  
“We both know that isn’t true,” I murmured.  
  
His pale eyes darkened, and he tensed like a panther preparing to spring. I think he likes it better when I fight back. “Maybe I’m just in better shape than you are.”  
  
“Maybe you should show me.”  
  
That delicate eyebrow arched up all the way to the nonexistent sky. I wanted to smooth it down with my tongue. “You’re a very, very bad boy.”  
  
“Yes, I am. I lied to my poor navigator, who has probably never told an untruth in his entire life.”  
  
Deimos sank down and copied my pose, grasping the arches of his feet with ease. He rotated his far leg until it was pointed out straight behind him, then leaned forward to reach for his near foot. _Damn. Come over here and do that on my lap, why don’t you._ My fingers itched to trace his calf, the sensitive dip in the back of his knee, the muscles at the back of his thigh, the rounded curve of his—“What, now you’re not even going to stretch? Tch. So lazy.”  
  
“I already did that one. I’m just waiting for you to catch up.”  
  
“Liar.”  
  
“You’re so good at it, I’m just watching you to get tips.”  
  
He snorted. “Nice try.”  
  
I leaned in. “You could help me. If you were feeling merciful.”  
  
“What makes you think I’m feeling merciful?”  
  
“Or you could help me if you were feeling brutal. You could…stretch me past my limits.”  
  
He gave me a considering smile from under his bangs. “That does sound more appealing. I’m not feeling particularly merciful.”  
  
I drifted closer, until my lips were almost touching his jaw. “How do you want me?”  
  
A stinging slap sent me reeling to the side. Deimos leaned over me, looking smug. “On your belly, hands behind your back.”  
  
I rubbed my face. “Oh my.”  
  
“I’m going to make you _so_ sore,” he hissed.  
  
“God, I hope so.”  
  
Once I was in position, I felt his weight settling on the backs of my thighs. I could hardly breathe.  
  
“Relax, idiot. This is a stretch, you’re not supposed to get even tighter.” His hand brushed my ass, and I sucked in a quick breath.  
  
“So far nothing’s getting stretched except my patience.”  
  
Deimos clicked his tongue, sounding pleased. “You need to exercise your patience more, then. It’s puny.” He took hold of my hands and pulled them back until my shoulders ached and the top half of me rose up from the mat. “Is this nice?”  
  
I sighed. “Mm hmm.”  
  
“It shouldn’t be. This isn’t supposed to be a walk in the park.”  
  
“What’s a park?”  
  
He lowered me back down and let go of my hands, then smacked my ass. “They have parks in Three, you oaf. We even have them in Five. Stop trying to provoke me.”  
  
“It worked,” I pointed out.  
  
“Only because…your ass was right there.” His hands cupped and kneaded, and I pressed my face into the mat and arched back up to meet them, trying not to moan aloud. After a few moments he rolled off. “All right, that’s enough. On your back.”  
  
I rolled over, tucked my hands behind my head, and looked up at him. “Gonna sit on me again?”  
  
Suddenly a crushing pain sent a cloud of red sparks over my vision. Deimos was crouched over me, one boot heel grinding into my crotch. “No, I’m going to _stand_ on you. Gonna mouth off again?”  
  
I whimpered, unable to form words even if I’d wanted to.  
  
“Good. I didn’t think so.” The pressure eased, sending the blood rushing back in, and the boot dropped back down to the floor. “No, you don’t get to rub it, for fuck’s sake Marsh we’re in a public place.”  
  
I’m pretty sure it was the pain that made my eyes swim. It definitely had nothing to do with hearing him finally say the name he gave me, after all those long months. In my mind I reached out for him but couldn’t touch him. The distance between us hurt as much as the bruised tender flesh between my legs. I wanted him to lie down on top of me and tuck his face into my shoulder. I wanted to kiss his forehead and touch his back and feel his fingers’ slow trail over my chest. When he does that I feel like he’s stroking my heart, my heart that stopped because he’s so perfect I don’t dare move, my heart that needs the stroke of his hand to keep pumping the blood through my body. _Please, baby, please. I’m starving, I’m dying, I need you._  
  
I finally managed to blink away the tears, and saw him watching me with that smooth blank expression he wears in public. He leaned forward and placed a hand just below my navel. My breathing slowed, and my muscles relaxed. “Ready?” he asked finally.  
  
I nodded.  
  
He went down on one knee next to me, and took hold of my heel. “Keep your leg straight.”  
  
I nodded again.  
  
Deimos lifted my foot, rotating my leg up and back toward my head. He stopped when my leg was at a right angle to my body, and held it there before slowly pushing it further back. He stopped again once I let out a little yelp, eased up a bit, and held it. It was a vaguely obscene pose, and if the mood hadn’t changed I would have commented on it. I wondered where he’d learned these stretches, if he’d thought about doing them with Cain—if he _had_ done them with Cain. Who else he might have done them with. This sounds jealous, but all I felt was curiosity, a vague yearning and reaching toward all the things I didn’t know about him. There wasn’t a lot I did know about him, other than the things you learn in bed or from watching someone across the room.  
  
When he lowered my foot back down and changed sides, I did ask. “Where did you learn these? I’ve never seen anyone here doing them.”  
  
He gave me a quick sharp glance. “My sister.”  
  
I wanted to ask more about it, but his mouth had set and his eyes were on my foot. We ran through several more exotic (to me) partner stretches; I especially liked the one where you sit facing each other holding hands with the soles of your feet touching the other person’s, and take turns leaning back.  
  
Finally he sat back and said, “It’s breakfast time.”  
  
“How do you know that?” There was no wall clock in sight from our particular position.  
  
“Because I know how much time has passed. Don’t you?”  
  
“Uh…no?”  
  
“Tch. Sometimes I wonder how you manage to survive.” He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, and held out his hand.  
  
“Just lucky, I guess.” I accepted, because the thought of tiny Deimos hauling hulking me off the ground was funny, but I pulled back a bit so he reeled toward me at the end.  
  
“Мудак,” he muttered, but let me enfold him in my arms. I buried my face in his hair and inhaled, and felt his hands creep up slowly onto my back, like tender vines growing. “Well?” he demanded after a minute. “Are we going to breakfast or not?”  
  
***  
  
That big lunk won’t stop grinning at me, even though we’re in the middle of the mess hall. I made him sit next to me instead of across, so he wouldn’t spend the whole meal staring deep into my eyes, but he just keeps nudging me and playing footsie under the table. I keep feeling nervous that He—that Cain will see us, but I remind myself that it doesn’t matter now. I’m my own person, and I can sit with anyone I want to.       
  
I glance sideways at Marsh, and, just for a moment, let myself smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where this story really starts to diverge from canon. I know that in the comic almost no time at all goes by between the moment that Praxis decides to pay attention to Ethos and the day before the battle is scheduled to happen—it could even be the same day, I’m not sure. But it felt like months for those of us reading it—which it was!—so I fudged it and stuck a month or two in between for Praxis and Ethos to get friendly, and I assumed that everyone we know will be alive after the coming battle, with relationships more or less unaffected by whatever Phobos is about to do. 
> 
> I’m pretty sure once Chapter 5 comes out this will become even less canon-compatible, but I don’t fucking care anymore. 
> 
> “Jos mio” = Dios mio, OMG. This is in Tria, the language of Colony Three that was originally cobbled together from Spanish, English, Portuguese, Swahili, Russian & a few others.
> 
> Мудак = asshole
> 
> The quote beginning with, “In mah baby brain…” is from The Female Man, by Joanna Russ. I can see Ethos getting into olde tyme feminist lit!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what is plot  
> baby don’t hurt me

Marsh follows me after we leave the mess hall, tries to nudge me into alcoves and doorways, keeps running his hand down my back. I finally drag him into a storeroom and grab his hands. “Behave,” I tell him sternly, but he’s already kissing my neck, and I sigh and tilt my head back because how can I resist so many kisses? Whenever one ends, the next one begins.  
  
“I want to kiss you for three hours straight,” he declares into my ear.  
  
“That’s a very specific amount of time.”  
  
“Mmm hmm.”  
  
“Won’t your lips get tired?”  
  
“Let’s find out.”  
  
I laugh before I can stop myself. “I’m surprised you don’t want to do…other things.”  
  
“Oh, I do. After I kiss you for three hours, I want to do _all kinds_ of terribly wicked things with you for three hours. And then sleep with you for three hours.”  
  
“Will we then eat dinner for three hours?”  
  
“Well…in an ideal world, yes. Given the mess hall, probably not.” He brightens. “But we could talk for three hours!”  
  
“Talking, ugh.”  
  
“Oh come on, you secretly love talking. It doesn’t have to be about feelings.”  
  
“I like telling stories. I don’t like talking.” Why did I just say that?  
  
“Well, we could tell stories for three hours. And then it’ll be time to kiss again for three hours.”  
  
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. We have real PT in half an hour.”  
  
“We can do our own PT.” He nips my ear.  
  
“Down, boy.” I grab his shoulders and push, needing him away from my face for a moment. I can’t think, I’m getting overwhelmed. He promptly nuzzles the front of my pants and I have to swat him away. “Not like THAT, my god.”  
  
Marsh looks up at me from his knees. “Are you sure?”  
  
“YES. I think. For the moment, anyway. I just need—space.”  
  
He folds his hands in his lap and looks down. I pet his hair for a bit, making myself breathe. Then I sit down and lean against him. He rearranges his feet in front of him and wraps his arm around me, and we sit in silence for a couple of minutes.

Eventually the parts of me that aren’t touching him start to get jealous, and I scramble up into his lap. I sit sideways, resting my cheek against his shoulder and stroking his chest, the way we both like.  
  
He inhales sharply as if I’d bitten him, and holds me tight. “Oh, sweetheart.”  
  
I pull aside his collar and kiss his neck, breathing him in.  
  
“Baby,” he whispers. “Carido. Tamo tanto.”  
  
I don’t speak Tria but I’m pretty sure I know what that means. I decide to ignore it, because I’m tired of fighting him and maybe I don’t want to anymore, maybe I just want to accept it. Isn’t this what I want, anyway? Don’t I _want_ someone kind and strong and handsome and good to love me and treat me well? Don’t I want this _particular_ someone, the one who likes me when I’m fierce and loves me when I cry, the one who takes everything I dish out and asks for more? Haven’t I been pinched and angry since he left, bitter and shriveled like a rotten nut?  
  
I don’t know if I’m capable of love at this point, but I’m so thirsty for affection, and I want to give it to him too, I like petting him and filling him up with bliss. It doesn’t make any sense that someone like him would want me, but I guess he’s crazy and he does, he’s practically weeping with joy because I sat in his lap and kissed his neck.  
  
There’s a silky feeling on my cheek—it’s the back of his hand. I close my eyes and tilt my head to get more of it, then turn to kiss his fingers. I lift my mouth to his, and feel a rumble as he sighs. “Marsh,” I whisper. “It hurts. It feels so nice but it hurts.”  
  
“What hurts, baby?”  
  
“Being with you.”  
  
He freezes. Now I’ve hurt him.  
  
“I don’t mean—I…sorry.”  
  
“Oh sweetheart, am I hurting you somehow?”  
  
“It hurts…to have feelings. Mostly that.” I’m getting raspy even though I’m whispering. This is so hard. I don’t even know why I’m doing it. “But…but. I. When you. All THAT. It was…so hard. And then…Ethos.”  
  
He strokes the back of my head. “I’m sorry. What should I have done?”  
  
“I don’t know. Not…offered me. To someone else. Without asking.”  
  
“Oh baby, I didn’t offer you to him. We were going to ask you how you felt about it.”  
  
“But you made an agreement with him, to ask me together. So if I want you I have to take him too, unless I want us to be secret again, or have drama forever. And I don’t think we could even _be_ secret at this point, because he saw us and I think he’s smarter than—than Cain. And even _he_ figured it out right away. Not that it was you, but that I was—with someone.”  
  
“Hmm. I didn’t think of it that way. I think he would understand if you told him that, though. He doesn’t want you to feel constrained.”  
  
I grin up at him. “Just you?”  
  
Marsh lets out a startled laugh. “Yeah, I guess. But I have obligations to him, you don’t. And I’ve already wronged him.”  
  
“You’re not obligated to share your boyfriends with him!”  
  
He lets out a delighted gasp and ducks his head to meet my eyes. “Are you my _boyfriend_?”  
  
“Shut _up_ ,” I mumble, turning my head away. “You know what I mean. You’re supposed to keep him safe and practice with him. Things like that. Not find him dates.”  
  
He kisses my cheek. “I guess you’re right.”  
  
“Of course I’m right.”  
  
“I should never have entertained the possibility of doubt.”  
  
I snort and smack him lightly. “Stop flattering me.”  
  
“But you hit me when I flatter you.”  
  
I grab him by the hair and pull his head down. “You are _such a pervert_.”  
  
He can’t answer because I’m already kissing him. Eventually we have to come up for air though. “I’m _your_ pervert,” he whispers. “I never had thoughts like that until I saw you.”  
  
“How can that be,” I whisper back, trailing a fingernail along his throat to make him shiver and pant. “I can’t believe someone as twisted as you wasn’t already like that. Look at you. I bet you’re thinking about knives.”  
  
“ _Ohh_ , I am now."  
  
“Well stop thinking about them. We don’t have time right now.”  
  
“Honestly I could probably come in a minute or two if you keep acting like that.”  
  
“You are terrible.” I can’t keep myself from kissing him again. And again. His lips, his tongue, those deep vibrations when he moans, god I want him so much.  
  
“You don’t—mmmh—seem to mind.”  
  
“Did I say I minded?”  
  
“I guess you didn’t, come to think of it.” His hand is moving slowly up my inner thigh.  
  
I bite his lip. “Do I have to get off your lap?”  
  
“You could get off _in_ my lap.”  
  
“Marsh, that is awful. And I—”  
  
“You want to, don’t you?”  
  
His hand is all the way up to my crotch now, rubbing me through the fabric, and I gasp and dig my fingernails into his wrist, pushing up in spite of myself. “Fuck. Fuck, all right.”  
  
“Turn around?” he asks, and I know he means that he can only reach with his non-dominant hand from this position.  
  
I do turn around, but only halfway, so my back is to him, my knees up and apart.  
  
“That is so hot,” he moans. “I wish we were naked.”  
  
“ _Later_ —ohhh.” He’s opening up my pants and pulling it out and I’m just watching like an idiot, my mouth hanging open. Then his hand starts moving and his other hand is up my shirt and I lose my awkward self-consciousness and throw my head back against his shoulder, digging my heels into the floor and pushing up into his hand.  
  
“Yeah, that’s right—”  
  
I hiss and sink my nails into his thighs.  
  
“Are you sure this—position’s going to be okay?”  
  
“Mmh hmm. I know it’s you.”  
  
“Okay, sweetheart. Tell me if it starts to feel wrong.” Marsh kisses my neck, his hand moving on my chest, warming it.  
  
I nod, sighing.  
  
“You feel so good on me, does it feel good to you?”  
  
“Mmmh—” I nod again, and twist my head around to offer him my ear. His tongue teases and caresses and then plunges in, and I’m panting and grinding shamelessly into the erection that I can feel growing under me. “Marsh—”  
  
“You like it?”  
  
“Mmmmh—”  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“Fuck you,” I gasp.  
  
“Tell me you like it.” His hand is moving slower and it makes my whole body writhe. His other hand finds my nipple and pinches heat into it, twists burning into it, and I’m biting my hand to stifle my sobs.  
  
“I want to hear you.” His voice is so dark and deep, he’s fucking my ear with it. “Tell me you like it. Make noise for me.”  
  
“Fuck you, fuck, fuck—”  
  
“Come on, baby—”  
  
“Don’t _fucking_ call me that, ahhh—”  
  
“You like it when I call you that.”  
  
His hand is too slow, and I push forward frantically. “Fuck you, _goddammit_ Marsh, just bite me, fuck me—”  
  
“Oh, is someone getting bossy?”  
  
“Yes. YOU are.”  
  
Marsh laughs. “All right, you got me there. Do you want me to stop?”  
  
“I want you to go faster!”  
  
“Oh, is that so?” He lowers his mouth to my neck, pushing aside my collar, and sinks his teeth in, so slowly.  
  
I can’t stop myself from moaning.  
  
“Oh sweetheart, baby, I want to make this good for you, that’s why I go slow—”  
  
“Nnnh, make it _bad_ for me, go fast, do it hard, that’s how it should be— _oh!_ ” His teeth are in my neck again, his hand is moving faster, his other hand is pinching my nipple, sharp heat and friction and tight pressure all over.  
  
“I have to confess,” he whispers, “I do like making you go crazy.”  
  
“ _Thought_ so, you fucking—”  
  
“Such rudeness!” He’s pushing up into me now, I wish he would do it without clothes.  
  
I spread my legs wider, grinding back on him, trying to get his cock into me somehow, magically. “What are you gonna do about it?”  
  
“I’m going to keep torturing you until you admit you like it and come for me. Then I’m going to pull down your pants and fuck you till you can’t move.”  
  
My voice betrays me again. “Ohhh! Oh Marsh, fuck me _now_ —”  
  
“If I do it now I’m going to use my fingers, and I’m going to make you wait for _such_ a long time.”  
  
“Noooo, no don’t make me wait, Marsh, I’ve waited so long—”  
  
“Do you want it?”  
  
“YES, come on, I want it—”  
  
“Then earn it. Come for me.”  
  
“MAKE me,” I spit, and then he’s biting me harder than ever, grabbing me around the hips with his left hand while the right jerks me faster, holding my hips back so I can’t move but thrusting against me, and I can’t, I can’t stop it, I’m crying out and oh god, _fuck_ yes, his hand his hand his mouth he’s making me, fuck aaah can’t stop need you I’m yours yours all yours.  
  
I’m collapsed back onto him, my head rolling back against his shoulder, boneless and helpless and I don’t care anymore, I don’t care about anything, I just want to stay in his arms forever. He’s nuzzling and kissing the spots he bit, and one of his hands isn’t on me anymore, that spot is cold now, where is it? I make a little noise of protest and paw the air.  
  
“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” His voice is still deep, tense, his teeth gritted. “Do you still want to—?”  
  
“Oh! Mmmh, yes.”  
  
He lets out a sigh that’s almost a sob. “I have some—things with me. Do you want—fingers first?”  
  
I kind of do now that I’m no longer desperate, but the thought that he can’t wait is more enticing. “No. If you have lube you can just—ohhh—just do it. Put it in me.” I make a tremendous effort and force myself up out of his lap, up onto my knees.  
  
“God,” he murmurs, and then he’s gripping one hip, the other hand all over my ass, kneading and probing. “Okay. Okay.”  
  
“Better hurry up, or I might change my mind.” I give him a little wriggle.  
  
Marsh rewards me with a firm slap, and lets go. I can hear him rummaging in his pocket, undoing his pants, tearing open a packet. I realize it’ll happen sooner if I pull my own pants down now, but I want him to watch me do it. I shrug off my jacket to encourage him to bite me in more places, and then twist around to look down at him.  
  
I watch him roll down the condom, open the lube packet, and—oh my, spread it on. He’s breathing so hard, I can almost feel it from here. I wait till he looks up to meet my eyes, and then roll my hips, inching the waistband down.  
  
“I thought you were impatient,” he growls at the halfway point.  
  
“I’m just trying to make _you_ impatient.” I grin back at him, then turn back forward.  
  
“Well, you succeeded.” He yanks my pants down to my knees, and suddenly I’m breathless too.  
  
“Marsh—ohh, I thought you weren’t going to use fingers…”  
  
“I’m just, just getting you wet for me, baby—”  
  
“Ohhhh—”  
  
“Yeah, sweetheart, that’s right, that’s good.”  
  
“Marsh, Marsh—”  
  
“Do you like fingers too?”  
  
“Yes, oh yes, I do, but, ah, ah, but I want, I want to feel you close to me all over—” I also want to be pushed beyond the point of self-awareness until I’m a screaming animal ball of need bursting free from the thoughts that plague and contain me. That’s a little awkward to express, though, even in the heat of passion.  
  
“Okay, baby—“  
  
I realize I can’t brace properly unless I spread my legs, and I can’t spread my legs until I get at least one of them free of my pants. “Aah! Can you take my boot off?”  
  
“Sure. Which one?”  
  
“I don’t care! Whichever!” This is so fucking awkward.  
  
“Okay sweetie, it’s okay. Just a minute.” An unzipping, a slow pull and shake, and my right foot is free. I lift that knee and Marsh stares for a moment, then realizes what he’s supposed to do and pulls my pants off that leg. “Do you want the other too—”  
  
“No, god, I don’t care, just let me—”  
  
He gets up on his knees and moves up close to me, then sinks down so he’s sitting on his feet. I inch back a little more, and he wraps an arm around me to steady me so I don’t fall forwards. I reach down to take his erection in my hand and hold it steady, rub myself against it, feel it probe the cleft of my ass, so big and blunt, it’s a little scary. I like a little scary though, and I deliberately relax and lower myself down onto it until the head slips in.  
  
It still forces a cry out of me, and Marsh kisses my shoulder. “Is that—ahhh, is that—”  
  
“Just let me, let me, um….” It’s so obscene, so intimate and strange, the way I’m sliding down onto it bit by bit with little motions of my hips, it’s pushing up into me so slowly and it hurts, I’m not going to lie about that, but the faster I move the better it feels and the more open I am to it, the pain’s shading into excitement and fading, fuck, oh god I’m all the way down now and I can’t stop moving, I like it too much. “Can—you, can—please, move now—”  
  
“Yeah, oh yeah, fuck yes, ahhh—” One hand is clamped around my hip and the other’s wrapped across my shoulders, controlling my movements. Marsh thrusts up into me, and I’m wailing aloud again, I need him, I like it, I like _him_ , it’s scaring me. I’m so scared of liking him, of how much I want him, of how much he wants me. This isn’t working, I’m not forgetting who I am, but I still like it, but I don’t know if I want to like it. It hurts, and not in a physical way. I don’t know if I want to get it over with or prolong it, I don’t know what he’s going to expect, he expects too much, I don’t know if I can do it.  
  
But I can’t ignore him, that part I like, I can’t ignore that he’s holding me tight and pushing up so far inside me, his rich dark voice thrumming in my ear, sounding like I’m hurting him and he likes it, deep and desperate and forgetting to control himself. I love it when he loses control and grabs me, he’s so sexy and he doesn’t even know it, except sometimes he does and I like both of those times. I like teasing him and being teased, I like teasing him and getting punished for it. I like punishing him for teasing me, too, but that’s not what we’re doing right now.  
  
He’s so massive, so muscular, so exciting, just a few words and a touch and he has me on my knees, legs spread, helpless for him. I’m frantically moving my hips as much as he’ll let me, I can’t stop myself, I don’t want to stop myself. I’m gasping, letting my voice rise up, and he answers me and it’s so, so—Marsh I can’t, can’t think, can’t, but it feels so right, it feels like something out of joint is clicking back into place, my blood is moving again through dry sunken veins. I missed you, I missed you, I was dying without you, so dull and sick, just brittle bones and the deep shame that comes from wanting what’s too good for me.  
  
He’s gripping me tighter and pounding me faster, calling that name we came up with together that still sounds a little strange but it’s something only he calls me so it’s beautiful. Suddenly his hand is on my cock, how did I get hard again so fast, and he clamps his left hand over my mouth and I’m screaming into it as his right hand flies and makes me, makes me, ah ah ah—fuck Marsh, Marsh, how do you do this to me, I didn’t want to but I do now, oh god ahhh—  
  
I’m limp again but he’s holding me up, shoving up into me so fast, making fierce frantic sounds, sucking and biting my neck, and I let him bite me because there’s no one to hide from this time. He can bruise me as much as he wants, and if Ethos doesn’t like it he can go fuck himself, everyone else can go fuck themselves. I contract around him and let out a slow, hot little whimper, and then another, and he groans and clutches me, convulsing, giving one final hard thrust that makes me gasp.  
  
We slump forward onto the floor, Marsh on top of me, still inside me. I wish we were on a bed but it feels so good to have him there anchoring me and warming me. He’s kissing my neck again, what a sweet sexy monster. Marsh, don’t ever get off me, just get off in me, over and over again.  
  
“Oh my god,” he murmurs, out of breath. “Skala. You. So. You’re so…”  
  
I laugh, because I love it when he gets inarticulate.  
  
“You’re so hot. So gorgeous. How—how can anyone ever want to have sex with anyone but you.”  
  
I freeze. The world freezes.  
  
He realizes his mistake. “I mean. Oh sweetheart. You know. I mean, not everyone can have sex with you, sometimes, anyway, so they have to um, find alternatives.”  
  
The words drop from my mouth like icicles from a roof—cold, sharp, slipping out of my control. “That’s right, dig yourself in deeper.”  
  
“Oh sweetheart, can we please not do this?” Marsh kisses my neck, strokes my arm.  
  
I shift uncomfortably, and he rolls off, pulling out with an uncomfortably abrupt squelch. “My god, how much belittling of a dead man does it take to make you feel secure?”  
  
There’s a stone in my belly, so heavy, pulling me down. My ass is suddenly naked and vulnerable. I’m scrambling to get my pants back on, feeling for my other boot, I think I got his leg instead, where is the boot, there it is, can’t think of anything else, can’t listen to him, he’s not saying anything meaningful, it’s just noises. I have to get away, get to PT, it’s time for PT, time to get to where there are other people, too many other people for anything to happen, I have to get away from him, I’m kicking him, I can’t look at his face.  
  
I’m in the hall, I forgot my jacket, oh well, goodbye jacket. I don’t wear it in PT anyway. I’ll just run there so I won’t be cold. I’m so cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why that happened. I should probably plan these things out ahead of time! I did it with Marshmallow Fluff and that one went the easiest of all.
> 
> That stuff about “is the position okay” is a reference to Solve for Ex, which I have now posted but I hadn't posted when I posted this chapter. If that makes any sense.
> 
> "Tamo tanto" means, of course, "I love you so much."


End file.
